THE  LITERATURE  OF  ITALY 

consists  of  sixteen  volumes,  of  which 
this  one  forms  a  part.  For  full  partic- 
ulars of  the  edition  see  the  Official 
Certificate  bound  in  the  volume  entitled 

"A   HISTORY   OF  ITALIAN 
LITERATURE." 


Literature 

Edited  by  Rossitcr  Johnson  and 
Dora  Knowlton  Ranous  ^s^  ^^  ys^ 

With  a  General  Introduction  by  William 
Michael  Rossetti  ^  and  Special  Intro- 
ductions by  James,  Cardinal  Gibbons, 
Qiarles  Eliot  Norton,  S^  G.  W.  Ben- 
jamin, William  S.  Walsh,  Maurice 
Francis  Egan,  and  others  .^  -^  -^  -^  -^ 
ew  translations,  and  former  render- 
ings compared  and  revised  ^  ^bt  yS7  ys^ 
Translators x  James  C.  Brogan,  Lord  Charle- 
mont,  Geoffrey  Chaocer,  Hartley  Coleridge, 
Florence  Kendrick  Cooper^  Lady  Dacre^ 
Theodore  Dwight,  Edward  Fairfax,  Ugo 
Foscolo,  G.  A.  Greene,  Sir  Thomas  Hoby, 
"William  Dean  Howells,  Luigi  Monti,  Evan- 
geline M.  O'Connor,  Thomas  Okey,  Dora 
Knowlton  Ranous,  Thomas  Roscoe,  William 
Stewart  Rose,  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti,  Wil- 
liam Michael  Rossetti,  John  Addington 
Symonds,  "William  S.  "Walsh,  William 
Wordsworth,  Sir  Thomas  "Wyatt  .&  ■>&  ^sr  ^S' 


AN  i  1 J  OÌ.OGY 


IT  AUTHORS 


PORTRAIT  OF   VITTORIA   COLONNA 
From  a  Painting  by  Jules  Lefebvre 


THE   NATION.'^ 


AN 

ANTHOLOGY 

OF 

ITALIAN  AUTHORS 


FROM  CAVALCANTI  TO  FOGAZZARO 

(1270-1907) 
WITH    BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES 


THE   NATIONAL   ALUMNI 


copyright,  1907,  by 
The  National  Alumni 


CONTENTS 

PAGB 

INTRODUCTION          ix 

GUIDO  CAVALCANTI  — 

Sennets    to    Dante 3 

In  Exile  at    Sarzana 5 

'masuccio  salernitano  — 

The  Student's  Adventure 11 

MATTEO  MARIA  BOIARDO  — 

Narcissus         23 

Love,  an  Exile 26 

ANGELO  POLIZIANO  — 

The    Woodland    Bird 33 

A    May-Day   Song 34 

Chorus  of  Maenads 36 

Portrait  of  La  Simonetta 37 

JACOPO  SANNAZARO  — 

To  My  Love 43 

Blessed  and  Beautiful  Spirit 43 

PIETRO  BEMBO  — 

To    Italy 49 

Ye  Haunts  Recluse 49 

The    Dream 50 

MATTEO  BANDELLO  — 

The    Avaricious    Widow^ 55 

A  Greek  Heroine 70 

VITTORIA  COLONNA  — 

Faith 79 

Quatrain 79 

Aspiration 79 

On  her  Widowhood 80 

A  Prayer 80 


ivi8'727i4 


vi  CONTENTS 

LORENZO  DE'  MEDICI—  pac» 

Apostrophe   to   his    Genius 87 

To  a    Lady    Weeping 88 

A  Lover's  Chains 88 

Platonic   Affection 89 

Decadence  of   the    Seasons 90 

Orisons 91 

GASPARA  STAMPA  — 

She  Describes  her  Lover 97 

She  Admonishes  her  Lover 97 

She  Bemoans  the  Ruin  of  Love  ,...     =     .,.  98 

She  Dictates  her  own  Epitaph 98 

GIORDANO  BRUNO  — 

Causes  and  Principles 103 

FRANCESCO  REDI — 

The  Gentle  Soul i33 

The  Garden  of  Earthly  Love 133 

Love,  the  Minstrel 134 

VINCENZO  FILICAJA  — 

To  Italy 139 

Of  Providence         139 

Self-Reproach 140 

PIETRO  METASTASIO  — 

Achilles  in  Scyros 145 

CARLO  GOZZI  — 

The  Guilty  Bracelet 235 

Stolen     Pruit 243 

GIACOMO  LEOPARDI  — 

The  Story  of  the  Human  Race 253 

FRANCESCO  DALL'  ONGARO  — 

By  permission  of  the  translator,   William  D.  Howells. 

The  Decoration 277 

A  Lombard  Woman 277 

To  a   Beautiful  Woman 278 

GUISEPPE  GIUSTI  — 

Optimism  and  Patriotism 283 

Notes  of  Travel 286 


CONTENTS  vii 

ALEARDO  ALEARDI—  page 

The  Voyage  of  the  Bucentaur  .     .           297 

GIOSUÈ  CARDUCCI  — 

The   Ox 303 

The    Fleeting    Hour 304 

GIOVANNI  VERGA  — 

Rustic   Chivalry ■  .      .  309 

The  Wolf 318 

VITTORIO  BETTELONI  — 

When  We  Were  Young 329 

ANTONIO  FOGAZZARO  — 

Evening:     The  Bells 335 

EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS — 

Turkish    Women 343 

GABRIELE  D'  ANNUNZIO  — 

The  Love-Child 381 

Moonlight 383 

O  Maiden  Strange! 383 

Evening  in  May 384 

ADA  NEGRI  — 

Thou    Askest 388 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


Portrait   of   Vittoria  Colonna (Frontispiece) 

The  Court  of  Lorenzo  de'  Medici  . 86 

A  Beauty  of  the  Harem   . 341 


INTRODUCTION 

^|^,^0  literature  is  fully  and  fairly  represented  by  its 
J_Vn  great  authors  alone.  Nor  are  the  great  au- 
J^^  thors  themselves  fully  represented  unless  the 
reader  is  enabled  to  make  some  acquaintance 
with  their  countrymen  of  less  renown  that  have  sung 
the  smaller  (and  sometimes  sweeter)  songs  of  love, 
home,  or  heroism,  or  have  preserved  in  genre  the  every- 
day life  of  their  own  times.  An  educator's  pupils  are  a 
part  of  his  works,  and  the  minor  authors  are  nearly  all 
pupils  of  the  schools  founded  by  those 

"Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Through  the  corridors  of  Time." 

That  would  be  an  imperfect  presentation  of  English 
poetry  which  should  take  no  notice  of  Collins,  Gray, 
Chatterton,  Hood,  Mrs.  Hemans,  or  Charles  Lamb  ;  and 
similarly  the  editors  of  this  series  would  perform  an  in- 
complete service  to  Italian  letters  should  they  fail  to 
give  the  reader  something  from  the  works  of  Cardinal 
Bembo,  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent,  Vittoria  Colonna,  Gas- 
para Stampa,  Carducci,  Verga,  Fogazzaro,  Ada  Negri 
and  others,  who  have  a  permanent  though  less  conspicu- 
ous place  in  the  literature  of  their  country.  But  this 
volume  is  not  drav^m  entirely  from  minor  authors.  A 
few  whose  rank  is  higher  are  represented  here  because 
the  scope  of  the  series,  or  the  peculiarity  of  their  work, 
prevented  us  from  assigning  to  them  an  entire  volume. 

The  Editors 
ix 


POEMS 

BY 
GUIDO  CAVALCANTI 

TRANSLATED  BY  DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 


(è 


INTRODUCTION 

UIDO  CAVALCANTI  was  born  about  the  mid- 
dle of  the  thirteenth  century;  the  exact  date 
is  unknown.  He  belonged  to  an  eminent 
family,  of  the  Guelph  party.  His  father,  known 
as  a  soldier  and  a  politician,  is  mentioned  by  Dante  in 
the  Inferno  because  of  his  acceptance  of  the  Epicurean 
philosophy  and  his  lack  of  faith  in  a  future  life.  Guido 
married  a  daughter  of  Farina  degli  Uberti,  and  suc- 
ceeded him  as  the  head  of  the  Ghibelline  party.  He 
was  beloved  and  admired  by  Dante,  who'  classed  him 
with  himself  and  a  few  others  as  a  founder  of  the  new 
school  of  poetry,  the  dolce  stil  nuovo.  He  sent  him  the 
first  sonnet  of  his  Vita  Nuova,  and  a  poetical  correspon- 
dence between  them  is  still  in  existence.  Cavalcanti 
was  involved  in  a  feud  between  the  Cerchi  and  the 
Donati,  which  became  so  violent  that  the  leaders  of  both 
parties  were  exiled.  He  went  to  Sarzana,  and  thence 
made  the  popular  pilgrimage  to  the  shrine  of  Saint 
James,  in  Santiago  de  Compostela,  Spain.  On  his  re- 
turn he  met  at  Toulouse  the  lady  Mandetta,  to  whom 
many  of  his  poems  were  addressed.  These  are  mainly 
sonnets  and  canzonets.  One  eminent  critic  expresses 
the  opinion  that  "his  verse  savors  more  of  the  dialec- 
tician than  of  the  singer";  that  "his  odes  are  dryly 
scholastic,"  but  that  "at  the  same  time  certain  lyrics 
composed  in  a  lighter  mood  have  the  essence  of  sponta- 


2  INTRODUCTION 

neous  and  natural  inspiration.  His  ballate  were  prob- 
ably regarded  by  himself  and  his  friends  as  playthings, 
thrown  off  in  idle  moments  to  distract  a  mind  engaged 
in  thorny  speculations.  Yet  we  find  here  the  first  full 
blossom  of  genuine  Italian  verse.  Their  beauty  is  that 
of  popular  song  starting  flower-like  from  the  soil  and 
fragrant  in  its  first  expansion  beneath  the  sun  of  cour- 
tesy and  culture."  Another  critic  writes:  "Cavalcanti 
shows  two  somewhat  distinct  tendencies.  He  feels  the 
philosophizing  influence  of  Guido  Guinicelli,  which  had 
transformed  the  cjiivalric  and  amorous  ideals  of  Pro- 
vence and   Fraijce into   doctrines   of   the   spiritual   life. 

He  feels  also  the  charm  of  the  simple  and  direct  passion, 
the  naive  loveliness,  of  the  popular  song  of  the  Floren- 
tines. His  influence  upon  Dante  must  have  been  great 
from  this  very  fact." 

Cavalcanti  died  in  1300,  soon  after  his  return  from 
exile.  A  full  edition  of  his  poems  was  published  in 
Florence  in  1813.  His  biography  has  been  written  by 
Pietro  Ercole. 


TO    DANTE    ALIGHIERI 

Cavalcanti  interprets  Dante's  Dream,  related  in  the  first  Sonnet  of 
The  New  Life. 

Unto   my  thinking,  thou  beheld'st  all  worth. 
All  joy,  as  much  of  good  as  man  may  know, 
If  thou  wert  in  his  power  who  here  below 

Is  honor's  righteous  lord  throughout  this  earth. 

Where  evil  dies,  even  there  he  has  his  birth. 
Whose  justice  out  of  pity's  self  doth  grow. 
Softly  to  sleeping  persons  he  will  go. 

And,  with  no  pain  to  them,  their  hearts  draw  forth. 

Thy  heart  he  took,  as  knowing  well,  alas! 
That  Death  had  claimed  thy  lady  for  his  prey  • 
In  fear  whereof  he  fed  her  with  thy  heart. 
But  when  he  seemed  in  sorrow  to  depart, 
Sweet  was  thy  dream;  for  by  that  sign,  I  say, 

Surely  the  opposite  shall  come  to  pass. 


II 


Cavalcanti   compares   all    things   with    his  Lady,   and    finds   them 

zcanting. 

Beauty   in  woman;  the  high  will's  decree; 

Fair  knighthood  armed  for  manly  exercise; 

The  pleasant  song  of  birds;  love's  soft  replies; 
The  strength  of  rapid  ships  upon  the  sea; 

3 


4  GUIDO  CAVALCANTI 

The  serene  air  when  light  begins  to  be; 

The  white  snow,  without  wind,  that  falls  and  lies; 

Fields  of  all  flower;  the  place  where  waters  rise; 
Silver  and  gold;  azure  in  jewelry: — 
Weighed  against  these,  the  sweet  and  quiet  worth 

Which  my  dear  lady  cherishes  at  heart 
Might  seem  a  little  matter  to  be  shown; 

Being  truly,  over  these,  as  much  apart 
As  the  whole  heaven  is  greater  than  this  earth. 
All  good  to  kindred  natures  cleaveth  soon. 


Ill 

A  Rapture  concerning  his  Lady. 

Who    is  she  coming,  whom  all  gaze  upon, 

Who  makes  the  air  all  tremulous  with  light. 
And  at  whose  side  is  Love  himself?  that  none 

Dare  speak,  but  each  man's  sighs  are  infinite. 
Ah  me!  how  she  looks  round  from  left  to  right, 

Let  Love  discourse:  I  may  not  speak  thereon. 

Lady  she  seem.s  of  such  high  benison 
As  makes  all  others  graceless  in  men's  sight. 
The  honor  that  is  hers  cannot  be  said; 

To  whom  are  subject  all  things  virtuous. 
While  all  things  beauteous  own  her  deity. 
Ne'er  was  the  mind  of  man  so  nobly  led. 

Nor  yet  was  such  redemption  granted  us 
That  we  should  ever  know  her  perfectly. 


POEMS 

IV 
IN  EXILE  AT  SARZANA 

Because  I  think  not  ever  to  return, 
Ballad,  to  Tuscany, 
Go  thou  therefore  for  me 

Straight  to  my  lady's  face, 

Who,  of  her  noble  grace, 
Shall  show  thee  courtesy. 

Thou  seekest  her  in  charge  of  many  sighs. 

Full  of  much  grief  and  of  exceeding  fear. 
But  have  good  heed  thou  come  not  to  the  eyes 
Of  such  as  are  sworn  foes  to  gentle  cheer; 
For,  certes,  if  this  thing  should  chance,  from  her 

Thou  then  couldst  only  look 

For  scorn,  and  such  rebuke 

As  needs  must  bring  me  pain; 

Yea,  after  death  again 

Tears  and  fresh  agony. 

Surely  thou  knowest.  Ballad,  how  that  Death 

Assails  me,  till  my  life  is  almost  sped: 
Thou  knowest  how  my  heart  still  travaileth 

Through  the  sore  pangs  that  in  my  soul  are  bred. 
My  body  being  now  so  nearly  dead, 
It  cannot  suffer  more. 
Then,  going,  I  implore 
That  this  my  soul  thou  take 
(Nay,  do  so  for  my  sake). 
When  my  heart  sets  it  free. 


GUIDO  CAVALCANTI 

Ah!  Ballad,  unto  thy  dear  offices 

I  dO'  commend  my  soul,  thus  trembling 
That  thou  may'st  lead  it,  for  pure  piteousness. 
Even  to  that  lady's  presence  whom  I  sing. 
Ah!  Ballad,  say  thou  to  her,  sorrowing, 

Whereso  thou  meet  her  then  : 

"This  thy  poor  handmaiden 

Is  come,  nor  will  be  gone, 

Being  parted  now  from  one 

Who  served  Love  painfully." 

Thou  also,  thou  bewilder'd  voice  and  weak 

That  goest  forth  in  tears  from  my  grieved  heart, 
Shalt,  with  my  soul  and  with  this  ballad,  speak 
Of  my  dead  mind,  when  thou  dost  hence  depart, 
Unto  that  lady  (piteous  as  thou  art!) 
Who  is  so  calm  and  bright. 
It  shall  be  deep  delight 
To  feel  her  presence  there. 
And  thou.  Soul,  worship  her 
Still  in  her  purity. 


THE   STUDENT'S   ADVENTURE 

BY 

MASUCCIO   SALERNITANO 
TRANSLATED  BY  THOMAS   ROSCOE 


INTRODUCTION 

^I^Xj^ASUCCIO  GUARDATO,  known  as  Masuccio 
J  J  J  Salernitano  ("the  Salernian"),  was  bom  in 
^Xl^  Naples  in  1420,  and  died  in  1480.  Authentic 
details  are  lacking  as  to  his  true  social  rank, 
but  he  seems  to  have  risen  high  in  the  favor  of  noble 
patrons,  and  he  was  for  a  long  time  secretary  to  Prince 
Roberto  Sanseverino,  and  lived  most  of  his  life  at  the 
Neapolitan  court.  His  collection  of  tales  (II  Novellino) 
was  published  in  1470,  and  established  at  once  his  repu- 
tation as  a  story-teller  of  the  highest  order,  who  owed 
nothing  to  Boccaccio,  as  was  the  case  with  many  writers 
of  that  period.  His  style  was  distinctively  his  own  ;  he 
lived  among  the  nobles  of  a  royal  court,  yet  he  knew 
intimately  both  the  middle  class  of  society  and  the  com- 
mon people.  This  broad  knowledge  of  the  men  and 
manners  of  his  time  is  shown  in  the  wide  diversity  of 
his  original  and  strikingly  dramatic  plots;  and  his  mode 
of  expression  is  free  from  pedantry  and  full  of  strength 
and  beauty.  He  always  insisted  that  his  stories  were 
founded  on  fact,  which  assertion  must  have  awakened 
much  startled  curiosity  in  his  contemporaries,  as  most 
of  the  tales  deal  with  the  weaknesses  of  erring  human 
nature,  and  attack  the  clergy,  as  well  as  noble  lords  and 
their  fair  ladies,  with  no  gentle  touch.  But  his  work 
has  been  popular  throughout  the  centuries,  because  of 
its  irresistible  appeal  to  the  imagination  of  all  readers. 


THE  STUDENT'S  ADVENTURE 

TTRACTED  by  the  very  distinguished  and 
ancient  reputation  enjoyed  by  the  University 
of  Bologna,  an  eminent  scholar  of  Castile  re- 
solved to  visit  that  city  for  the  purpose  of 
obtaining  the  legal  degrees.  The  young  man  was  Mes- 
ser  Alfonso  da  Toleto,  esteemed  for  his  virtues,  and  in 
very  easy  circumstances,  the  recent  death  of  his  father, 
a  noble  cavalier,  having  left  it  in  his  power  to  furnish 
himself  with  everything  requisite  for  his  studies.  Thus, 
with  handsome  equipments,  steeds,  domestics,  an  excel- 
lent library,  and  a  thousand  gold  florins  in  his  purse,  he 
set  out  on  his  way  to  Italy.  Passing  in  a  few  days  by 
way  of  Castile  and  Catalonia  into  France,  he  arrived  at 
Avignon,  where  he  purposed  for  a  short  time  to  remain. 
The  next  day,  as  he  was  proceeding  from  his  irm  to 
amuse  himself  with  observing  the  place,  he  chanced  to 
behold,  looking  from  a  balcony,  a  very  beautiful  lady, 
whose  equal  he  imagined  he  never  had  seen  before;  and 
as  he  passed  along  her  attractions  were  still  present  to 
his  view.  Such,  indeed,  was  the  impression,  that  aban- 
doning all  his  laudable  pursuits,  he  determined  to  re- 
main in  that  place  until  he  obtained  some  portion  of  her 
regard.  By  frequently  passing  her  house  and  throwing 
himself  on  all  occasions  in  her  way,  he  so  far  betrayed 
his  attachment,  that,  being  a  very  artful  creature,  she 
quickly  perceived  that  she  had  him  in  her  power.  Aware 

of  his  youth  and  inexperience,  as  well  as  of  his  wealth 

11 


12  MASUCCIO  SALERNITANO 

and  quality,  she  began  to  consider  how  she  might  best 
impose  upon  him  for  her  own  interested  purposes.  And 
in  order  to  engage  more  speedily  in  a  conference,  like 
some  piratical  vessel  sending  out  its  boats  to  seize  pro- 
visions for  its  voyage,  she  fixed  upon  a  wicked  old  crea- 
ture, well  trained  to  the  business,  and  seating  herself  in 
the  window,  prepared  to  observe  the  result.  This  it 
was  that  the  poor  youth  most  ardently  desired.  Before 
the  old  hag  broke  off  the  interview,  she  had  learned 
everything  from  him  she  wished  ;  and  after  various  pres- 
ents and  messages  had  passed  on  both  sides,  it  was 
agreed  that  he  should  be  permitted  to  wait  upon  the  lady 
the  following  evening,  on  the  condition  of  bringing  with 
him  a  thousand  gold  florins  as  the  price  of  the  lady's 
conquest.  When  the  hour  arrived,  this  imprudent  and 
unfortunate  young  man  was  conducted  to  her  dwelling, 
and  received  with  apparent  pleasure  by  its  inmate,  whose 
name  was  Laura,  and  there,  unhappily  for  them  both, 
he  remained  until  the  following  day.  And  having  ar- 
ranged how  they  should  in  future  meet  without  fear  of 
exciting  the  suspicions  of  her  relatives,  the  wretched 
youth  reluctantly  took  his  leave,  and  returned  to  his 
own  abode. 

The  lady  seized  upon  her  spoils  with  triumph,  and, 
before  her  lover  left  her,  so  imposed  upon  his  credulity 
by  her  arts,  that,  having  dismissed  all  idea  of  Bologna 
and  its  studies  from  his  mind,  he  expected  to  have  fre- 
quent access  to  her  society.  So  the  following  evening, 
not  in  the  least  doubting  of  the  same  favorable  recep- 
tion, he  hastened  at  the  same  hour  to  the  lady's  resi- 
dence, and  having  repeated  the  signal  of  his  arrival  with- 


THE  STUDENT'S  ADVENTURE  13 

out  effect,  he  was  at  length  compelled,  however  unwill- 
ingly, to  retire  with  the  loss,  no  less  of  his  wealth  and 
honor,  than  of  his  beloved  object,  and,  stung  with  rage 
and  grief,  slumber  refused  to  visit  his  eyes  during  the 
whole  of  that  unhappy  night.  Resolved  the  next  morn- 
ing to  ascertain  the  cause  of  this  cruel  treachery,  he 
again  visited  the  fatal  house,  where  he  found  both  doors 
and  windows  closed,  in  confirmation  of  all  his  worst 
fears  that  he  had  been  vilely  abandoned  and  betrayed 
by  the  artful  woman  to  whom  he  was  so  passionately 
attached.  He  returned  to  his  friends  and  followers  full 
of  desperate  thoughts  against  himself,  which  stifling 
with  the  utmost  difficulty,  he  prepared  to  leave  the  place. 
And  being  quite  destitute  of  means  to  discharge  his  ex- 
penses, he  was  compelled  to  dispose  of  one  of  his  finest 
mules.  Having  thus  satisfied  his  host,  with  the  trifling 
resources  that  still  remained,  he  proceeded  on  his  way 
through  Provence  toward  Italy,  plunged  in  the  deepest 
grief  at  the  thought  of  having  to  travel  to  Bologna,  and 
to  reside  there  as  a  poor  student,  instead  of  making  the 
noble  figure  he  had  expected.  As  he  went  thus  full  of 
grievous  thoughts  along  his  weary  way,  being  arrived 
at  Trayques,  he  had  the  singular  fortune  to  take  up 
his  quarters  at  the  same  inn  where  the  husband  of  the 
artful  Laura  had  just  entered  for  the  night.  He  was  a 
handsome  and  accomplished  cavalier,  of  distinguished 
eloquence  and  great  authority  in  the  state,  and  was  then 
returning  from  an  embassy  sent  by  the  King  of  France 
to  the  Pope.  Having  begged  the  host  to  inform  him 
should  any  noble  traveler  alight,  in  order  to  enjoy  his 
society  at  table,  a  custom  always  observed  by  travelers 


14  MASUCCIO  SALERNITANO 

from  France,  he  was  told  that  there  was  a  Spanish  schol- 
ar going  to  Bologna,  who,  according  to  the  account  of 
his  domestics,  appeared  buried  in  the  profoundest  sor- 
row, having  scarcely  broken  fast  for  the  last  two  days. 
On  hearing  this,  the  cavalier  very  good-naturedly  deter- 
mined to  invite  the  poor  youth  to  sup  with  him,  and, 
becoming  his  own  messenger,  he  introduced  himself  into 
his  room,  where  he  found  him  seated  in  a  disconsolate 
attitude,  and  taking  him  affectionately  by  the  hand,  en- 
treated he  w^ould  favor  him  with  his  company  at  supper. 
The  youth,  perceiving  from  his  appearance  that  he  was 
a  person  of  some  importance,  could  not  refuse,  thus  in- 
vited, to  accompany  him;  and  sitting  down  together, 
when  they  had  concluded  their  meal,  they  dismissed 
their  domestics  from  the  room. 

The  ambassador  then  ventured  to  inquire  into  the  ob- 
ject of  the  young  man's  travels,  and  next,  as  far  as  deli- 
cacy allowed,  into  the  cause  of  his  apparent  affliction. 
Messer  Alfonso,  in  great  emotion,  replied  with  difficulty 
to  his  first  question,  entreating  to  be  excused  from  touch- 
ing upon  the  latter.  But  his  new  friend,  having  learned 
the  reason  of  his  leaving  home,  and  the  high  respecta- 
bility of  his  family,  became  still  more  solicitous  to  dis- 
cover the  origin  of  the  excessive  melancholy  which 
seemed  to  overpower  him.  After  frequently  evading 
his  questions,  the  youth  was  at  length  persuaded  by  the 
deep  interest  he  evinced  in  his  welfare  to  confide  to  him 
the  whole  of  his  unhappy  adventure,  with  the  lady's 
name,  and  the  manner  in  which  he  had  been  entertained 
by  her;  adding  that  the  disappointment  he  felt  at  being 
thus  betrayed,   and  the  loss   of  all   his   resources,   had 


THE  STUDENT'S  ADVENTURE  15 

driven  him  to  the  verge  of  despair.  The  cavaHer,  who 
had  thus  unconsciously  insisted  upon  the  knowledge  of 
his  own  dishonor,  at  these  words  soon  presented  a  far 
more  distressing  picture  of  wretchedness  than  even  the 
author  of  his  disgrace  ;  and  it  is  for  high-minded  men 
alone,  who  may  have  survived  the  loss  of  honor,  to  ap- 
preciate the  real  nature  of  his  feelings.  But  with  his 
usual  prudence  and  self-command,  he  checked  the  im- 
pulse of  his  feelings,  adopting  with  singular  promptness 
the  line  of  conduct  which  he  conceived  such  an  emer- 
gency required.  Then  turning  toward  the  youth,  he 
thus  addressed  him: 

"You  have  indeed,  young  man,  given  loose  to  your 
passions  in  a  very  reprehensible  manner,  and  fallen  into 
the  snares  of  a  vile  wretch,  whom,  from  your  own  state- 
ments, you  should  have  avoided  with  the  utmost  care. 
Could  my  severest  reproaches  now  avail  you,  I  should 
never  cease  to  condemn  your  folly;  but,  as  you  are  in 
far  greater  want  of  assistance  than  of  blame,  it  will  be 
enough  to  leave  you  to  the  remorse  such  conduct  cannot 
fail  to  produce.  Cease,  however,  to  entertain  the  des- 
perate thoughts  you  have  already  too  much  indulged, 
and  you  shall  find  that  in  the  end  I  will  become  your 
real  friend,  and  treat  you  no  otherwise  than  if  you  were 
my  own  son.  And,  as  you  may  perceive,  I  am  a  for- 
eigner, bound  to  pursue  my  route,  excuse  me  if  I  cannot 
be  at  your  disposal,  and  do  not  refuse  to  accompany  me 
back  the  way  you  came.  Come  to  my  house  for  a  few 
days,  and  I  then  promise  you  that  you  shall  pursue  your 
first  intentions  with  far  more  pleasure  than  you  at  pres- 
ent believe.      For   the  reputation    of  your   family   and 


16  MASUCCIO  SALERNITANO 

your  father's  noble  character  will  not  permit  me  to  be- 
hold his  son  proceeding  thus  unhappily  to  begin  his 
studies,  unable  to  support  the  respectability  of  his  name 
and  the  virtues  to  which  it  has  ever  been  allied." 

Surprised  at  these  proofs  of  kindness,  the  youth  ex- 
pressed his  gratitude,  as  far  as  mingled  grief  and  shame 
permitted  him  to  give  utterance  to  his  feelings.  They 
then  separated  for  the  night,  and  the  next  day  set  out 
on  their  way  toward  France,  traveling  so  speedily  under 
the  direction  of  the  cavalier,  that  they  arrived,  ere  night- 
fédl,  in  the  city  of  Avignon.  The  cavalier,  taking  the 
young  man's  arm,  immediately  conducted  him  to  his  own 
house,  the  fatal  house  whither  he  had  before  resorted; 
and  recognizing  the  spot,  he  beheld  the  same  lady  ad- 
vancing with  lights  in  her  hand  to  welcome  her  hus- 
band home.  Aware  of  the  whole  truth,  he  immediately 
gave  himself  up  for  lost;  and  as  he  was  hardly  able  to 
alight  from  his  horse,  the  cavalier  assisted  him,  and  led 
him  trembling  into  the  same  apartment  wherein  he  had 
been  received  before.  The  wife,  starting  back  at  the 
sight  of  the  student,  stood  as  if  conscious  of  her  impend- 
ing fate  ;  and  it  would  be  impossible  to  describe  the  grief 
and  terror  at  that  moment  depicted  on  her  countenance. 
The  supper  made  its  appearace,  when  they  sat  down, 
together  with  the  lady,  all  in  their  secret  thoughts  en- 
during varied  feelings  of  pain.  The  supper-table  being 
withdrawn,  the  cavalier,  turning  toward  his  wife,  thus 
addressed  her: 

"Laura,  bring  me  the  thousand  gold  florins  which  this 
young  person  gave  you,  and  for  which  you  bartered  your 
own  honor  and  mine,  and  that  of  all  our  family." 


THE  STUDENT'S  ADVENTURE  17 

On  hearing  these  words,  the  lady  appeared  as  if  she 
were  sinking  into  the  earth,  and  was  unable  to  utter  the 
least  answer.  Her  husband  then  fixing  his  eye  upon 
her  with  a  stern  expression,  and  seizing  his  dagger,  ex- 
claimed : 

"Thou  vilest  of  women,  as  you  value  your  life,  this 
moment  do  as  I  have  commanded  you!" 

Marking  his  rising  passion,  his  wife,  overpowered 
with  fear  and  weeping  bitterly,  dared  not  even  deny  the 
fact,  and,  going  out,  immediately  returned  with  the 
money,  which  she  laid  with  a  trembling  hand  upon  the 
table.  Having  examined  it,  her  husband  took  one  of  the 
pieces,  and  presented  it  to  the  young  man,  who  stood 
speechless  with  fear,  momentarily  expecting,  together 
with  the  lady,  to  feel  the  fatal  dagger  at  his  heart.  As 
he  presented  the  coin,  the  cavalier  thus  continued: 

"Everyone  ought  to  be  rewarded  for  his  pains  ;  and  as 
this  lady  was  at  the  trouble  of  entertaining  you  with 
both  love  and  scorn,  and  may  deservedly  be  ranked  with 
the  vilest  of  her  sex,  who  do  not  deserve  to  receive  more 
than  one  ducat  at  a  time,  I  beg  that  you,  sir,  who  hired 
her,  will  please  to  pay  her  what  I  have  given  you." 

He  compelling  his  wife  to  receive  it,  it  was  done. 
Then,  perceiving  the  young  man  to  be  quite  oppressed 
with  fear  and  shame,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  earth  and 
his  voice  convulsed  with  sobs,  he  continued: 

"Take  your  ill-guarded  and  ill-spent  gold,  poor  youth, 
and  remember  for  the  future  to  employ  it  better  than  in 
purchasing  your  shame,  instead  of  acquiring  the  reputa- 
tion and  honor  which  your  family  has  a  right  to  expect. 
Aim  at  nobler  pursuits.  Signor!     But  I  would  not  will- 


18  MA3UCCIO  SALERNITANO 

ingly  distress  you;  you  require  rest,  and  you  may  sleep 
under  my  roof  secure.  I  give  you  my  hand,  as  a  man 
of  honor — leave  us;  good-night!" 

The  unhappy  youth  was  then  shown  into  a  richly  fur- 
nished apartment,  with  every  attendance  and  conven- 
ience ;  but  his  thoughts  were  too  wild  to  admit  of  repose. 
Often  did  he  start  up  in  terror  as  if  again  he  had  heard 
the  voice  of  the  unhappy  Laura.  He  indeed  was  safe; 
but  the  light  of  morning  never  again  broke  upon  that 
lady's  eyes. 

The  following  day,  the  cavalier,  having  prepared  for 
their  departure,  accompanied  the  youth  about  ten  miles 
beyond  the  city,  and  on  taking  leave,  presented  him  with 
various  rich  presents,  saying: 

"Although  I  have  granted  you  your  life,  no  less  than 
the  fortune  you  had  lost,  I  cannot  feel  easy  in  parting 
with  you  unless  you  consent  to  receive  from  my  hands 
these  trifling  gifts,  together  with  this  horse,  as  a  recom- 
pense for  the  sale  of  your  mule.  In  token  of  my  pity 
for  you,  and  in  consideration  of  the  sufferings  you  have 
incurred,  deign  to  accept  them,  and  henceforward  con- 
sider me  in  the  light  of  a  father,  as  I  shall  continue  to 
feel  the  same  interest  in  you  as  if  you  were  really  my 
son. 

And  then,  tenderly  embracing  the  poor  youth,  whose 
continued  sobs  and  tears  choked  his  utterance,  he  took 
a  sorrowful  leave  of  him,  imposing  only  perpetual  silence 
as  to  the  events  which  had  just  taken  place.  Unable  to 
thank  him,  the  youth  pursued  his  way  to  Bologna,  while 
the  cavalier  returned  to  the  city  of  Avignon. 


POEMS 

BY 

MATTEO  MARIA  BOIARDO 

TRANSLATED  BY  JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS 


19 


INTRODUCTION 

^I^J^  ATTEO  MARIA  BOIARDO,  who  bore  the 
J  J  J  title  Count  of  Scandiano,  was  born  in  Scan- 
^^^^l^  diano  about  1432.  He  studied  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Ferrara,  then  became  an  attaché 
of  the  Duke  of  Este,  and  was  appointed  Governor  of 
Reggio.  In  1 48 1  he  became  Governor  of  Modena,  and 
six  years  later  returned  to  Reggio,  where  he  died  in 
1494.  He  is  famous  chiefly  for  his  long  poem  of 
chivalry,  Orlando  Innamorato,  which  never  was  fin- 
ished, because  of  the  French  invasion  of  Italy,  and  is 
now  seldom  read.  This  was  the  forerunner  of  Ariosto's 
Orlando  Furioso.  It  was  popular  in  its  day,  was  several 
times  re-written,  and  was  translated  into  French.  It 
was  not  printed  entire  till  a  year  after  Boiardo's 
death.  He  wrote  a  drama  entitled  //  Timone,  and  a  large 
number  of  sonnets  and  other  short  poems,  the  finest  of 
which,  like  many  other  poets,  he  wrote  for  his  sweet- 
heart, Antonia  Capraca.  One  biographer  says:  "There 
are  traces  of  Boiardo's  being  attached  to  at  least  two 
ladies,  and  he  married  a  third."  His  bride  was  a  daugh- 
ter of  the  Count  of  Novellara.  In  the  administration  of 
his  governorship  he  was  criticised  for  his  extreme  mild- 
ness.     A   contemporary   wrote  of  him:     "He  was  not 

severe  to  the  errors  of  love,  but  kindly  gave  to  others 

21 


22  INTRODUCTION 

what  he  desired  for  himself.  He  sat,  indeed,  on  the 
seat  of  justice,  and  expounded  the  law  with  a  grave  face  ; 
but  his  countenance  was  not  always  severe.  Day  and 
night  he  sang  the  triumphs  of  love,  and  while  others 
studied  law,  he  applied  himself  to  tender  poetry." 


NARCISSUS 

Beyonb  the  bridge  there  was  a  little  close 
All  round  the  marble  of  that  fountain  fair; 

And  in  the  midst  a  sepulcher  arose, 

Not  made  by  mortal  art,  however  rare: 

Above  in  golden  letters  ran  the  gloss, 

Which  said,  "That  soul  is  vain  beyond  compare 

That  falls  a-doting  on  his  own  sweet  eyes. 

Here  in  the  tomb  the  boy  Narcissus  lies." 

Erewhile  Narcissus  was  a  damozel 

So  graceful,  and  of  beauty  so  complete, 

That  no  fair  painted  form  adorable 

Might  with  his  perfect  loveliness  compete; 

Yet  not  less  fair  than  proud,  as  poets  tell, 
Seeing  that  arrogance  and  beauty  meet 

Most  times,  and  thus  full  well  with  mickle  woe 

The  laity  of  love  is  taught  to  know. 

So  that  the  Empress  of  the  Orient, 

Doting  upon  Narcissus  beyond  measure. 

And  finding  him  on  love  so  little  bent, 
So  cruel  and  so  careless  of  all  pleasure, 

Poor  wretch,  her  dolorous  days  in  weeping  spent. 
Craving  from  morn  till  eve  of  Love  the  treasure. 

Praying  vain  prayers  of  power  from  Heaven  to  turn 

The  very  sun,  and  make  him  cease  to  burn. 

Yet  all  these  words  she  cast  upon  the  wind  ; 

For  he,  heart-hardened,  would  not  hear  her  moan. 
More  than  the  asp,  both  deaf  to  charms  and  blind. 

Wherefore  by  slow  degrees  more  feeble  grown. 


24  MATTEO  MARIA  BOIARDO 

Toward  death  she  daily  dwindling  sank  and  pined; 

But  ere  she  died,  to  Love  she  cried  alone, 
Pouring  sad  sighs  forth  with  her  latest  breath, 
For  vengeance  for  her  undeserved  death. 

And  this  Love  granted:  for  beside  the  stream 
Of  which  I  spoke,  Narcissus  happed  to  stray 

While  hunting,  and  perceived  its  silvery  gleam; 
Then  having  chased  the  deer  a  weary  way, 

He  leaned  to  drink,  and  saw,  as  if  in  dream. 
His  face,  ne'er  seen  by  him  until  that  day; 

And  as  he  gazed,  such  madness  round  him  floatc 

That  with  fond  love  on  his  fair  self  he  doted. 

Whoever  heard  so  strange  a  story  told? 

Justice  of  Love!  how  true,  how  strong  it  is! 
Now  he  stands  sighing  by  the  fountain  cold 

For  what  he  hath,  yet  never  can  be  his! 
He  that  was  erst  so  hard  as  stone  of  old, 

Whom  ladies  like  a  god  on  bended  knees 
Devoutly  wooed,  imploring  him  for  grace. 
Now  dies  of  vain  desire  for  his  own  face. 

Poring  upon  his  perfect  countenance, 

Which  on  this  earth  hath  ne'er  a  paragon, 

He  pined  in  deep  desire's  extravagance, 
Little  by  little,  like  a  lily  blown. 

Or  like  a  cropped  rose:  till,  poor  boy,  the  glance 
Of  his  black  eyes,  his  cheek's  vermilion, 

His  snowy  whiteness,  and  his  gleeful  mirth 

Death  froze,  who  freezes  all  things  upon  earth. 

Then  by  sad  misadventure  through  the  glade 

The  fairy  Silvanella  took  her  way; 
And  on  the  spot  where  now  this  tomb  is  made, 

'Mid  flowers  the  dead  youth  very  beauteous  lay: 


POEMS  25 

She,  marveling  at  his  fair  face,  wept  and  stayed 

In  sore  discomfiture  and  cold  dismay; 
Nor  could  she  quit  the  place,  but  slowly  came 
To  pine  and  waste  for  him  with  amorous  flame. 

Yea,  though  the  boy  was  dead,  for  him  she  burned: 
Pity  and  grief  her  gentle  soul  o'erspread; 

Beside  him  on  the  grass  she  lay  and  mourned, 
Kissing  his  clay-cold  lips  and  mouth  and  head. 

But  at  the  last  her  madness  she  discerned, 

To  love  a  corpse  wherefrom  the  soul  had  fled: 

Yet  knows  she  not,  poor  wretch,  her  doom  to  shun; 

She  fain  would  love  not,  yet  she  must  love  on. 

When  all  the  night  and  all  the  following  day 
Were  wasted  in  the  torrent  of  her  woes, 

A  comely  tomb  of  marble  fair  the  Fay 
Built  by  enchantment  in  the  flowery  close; 

Nor  ever  from  that  station  would  she  stray. 

But  wept  and  mourned;  till,  worn  by  weary  throes, 

Beside  the  font  within  a  little  space 

Like  snow  before  the  sim:  she  pined  apace. 

Yet  for  relief,  or  that  she  might  not  rue 

Alone  the  luckless  doom  which  made  her  die, 

E'en  'mid  the  pangs  of  love  such  charms  she  threw 
Upon  the  font  in  her  malignity, 

That  all  who  passing  toward  the  water  drew 
And  gazed  thereon,  perchance  with  listless  eye. 

Must  in  the  depth  see  maiden  faces  fair, 

Graceful  and  soul-enthralling,  mirrored  there. 

They  in  their  brows  have  beauty  so  entire 

That  he  who  gazes  cannot  turn  to  fly. 
But  in  the  end  must  fade  of  mere  desire, 

And  in  that  field  lay  himself  down  to  die. 


26  MATTEO  MARIA  BOIARDO 


LOVE,  AN  EXILE 

From  that  Elysium  where  thou  dwell'st  enshrined 
'Mid  thy  own  Psyche's  odorous  bowers, 
Wreathing  her  brows  with  amaranth  flowers, 

Gathered  by  streams  and  fields  of  fadeless  light, 
Come  gentle,  sacred  Love,  new-born  of  mind, 

As  thou  wert  pictured  by  the  old  poets  bright. 

When  Grace  was  young,  ere  Sion  mourned  her  sons 

By  banks  where  Jordan  runs — 

Oh,  come  to  weep  with  her  the  graces  fled. 

Now  sainted  glories  hovering  round  her  head. 

Gone  where  no  sorrow  comes,  no  fond  hearts  moan. 

For  the  lost  light  of  sweet  undying  love. 

That  too  soon  sought  its  fitter  sphere  above. 
And  left  us  wandering  lone. 

Since  last,  O  Love,  these  eyes  on  that  dear  face 
Did  rest  and  linger,  not  one  joyful  hour 
Was  mine — ^nor,  ah!  will  e'er  return, 
Till  reached  that  quiet  bourne. 

If  bounteous  Heaven  may  deign  to  grant  me  grace, 
And  mourning  hearts,  and  gentle  prayers  have  power. 
Who  love,  must  grieve — by  night,  by  day. 

And  ever  'twas  his  lot  who  loves  too  well; 
Deep  in  his  breast  the  pangs  of  sorrow  trace 
Love's  characters  no  tears  can  e'er  efface. 
Oh,  here  so  brief,  so  swiftly  gone! 
As  spuming  earth,  she  winged  her  way: 

No  time  to  breathe  one  short  farewell. 
Or  say,  "Oh,  Love,  we  meet  in  other  realms  of  day." 


POEMS  27 

Vainly  I  deemed  time,  change,  at  last  might  bring 

That  balm  of  Sorrow's  age. 

Oblivion  sweet,  o'er  Memory's  haunting  hours; 
But  ah,  what  hope  brings  healing  on  its  wing, 

Or  rest  in  life's  long  pilgrimage? 
The  grief  that  journeyed  with  me  bore  a  sting 

That  ceaseless  goads  the  exile  on  his  way. 
The  thought  of  home  and  friends — youth's  happier  day, 
That  brighter  sun — fresh  air,  glad  fields  and  flowers. 

Where'er  he  roves,  his  heart  can  never  stay; 
Still  at  each  step  he  treads  a  stranger's  clime. 
Joying  but  in  that  old  and  pleasant  time. 

So  lone  on  earth  wanders  Love's  passion-soul 

For  the  one  lost,  adored  past  death; 
Gathering  fresh  strength  with  every  heavy  toll 
Of  lingering  hours,  as  onward  to  the  goal 

He  hastes  with  weary  step  and  painful  breath, 
Musing  on  fadeless  features  of  the  past, 

Each  air,  each  look,  each  gracious  accent  sweet. 
Till  through  the  vistas  of  the  tomb,  at  last, 

He  sees,  all  joy,  how  spirit-loves  shall  meet, 
By  chastening  passion  that  fast  drinks  the  life. 
And  gives  Love's  first  home  for  the  pangs  of  strife. 
So  let  me  pour  this  last  fond,  dying  breath. 

In  one  all  glorious  love-pledge  to  thy  name; 
The  thought  of  thee  still  live  within  my  soul, 
And  reign  supreme  beyond  the  reach  of  death. 

When  this  worn  dust,  returning  whence  it  came. 
Strikes   the   last   chain   from   Love's  and   Heaven's 
control. 


POEMS  AND   BALLADS 

BY 

ANGELO  POLIZIANO 

TRANSLATED  BY  JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS 


20 


INTRODUCTION 

POLIZIANO,  who  was  born  near  Florence  in 
1454,  was  a  dear  friend  of  Lorenzo  de'  Medici, 
to  whom  he  appears  to  have  been  indebted  for 
his  education,  as  his  father  was  poor  and  not 
likely  to  be  able  to  send  him  to  the  celebrated  masters 
under  whom  he  studied.  He  wrote  :  "From  boyhood  al- 
most I  was  brought  up  in  that  asylum  of  virtue,  the 
palace  of  the  great  Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  Prince  of  his 
flourishing  Republic  of  Florence."  He  had  written,  at 
the  age  of  fourteen,  a  poem  of  fourteen  hundred  lines, 
on  the  first  tournament  of  Giuliano  de'  Medici.  This, 
though  unfinished,  was  greatly  admired  and  placed  him 
in  high  favor  at  court.  He  became  tutor  to  Lorenzo's 
children,  but  did  not  agree  very  well  with  their  mother, 
who  conceived  a  strong  dislike  for  him,  and  declared 
that  he  was  conceited  and  impertinent.  At  the  age  of 
twenty-nine  he  received  the  chair  of  Greek  and  Latin 
eloquence  in  the  University  of  Florence.  His  reputa- 
tion spread  rapidly  through  Italy,  and  he  was  sent,  on 
one  occasion,  as  ambassador  to  the  court  of  Rome,  and 
though  he  was  not  a  priest  he  enjoyed  several  benefices. 
It  is  said^ — apparently  on  good  authority — that  his  heart 
was  literally  broken  by  the  death  of  Lorenzo  and  the 
disasters  that  followed.  While  he  was  singing  a  monody 
that  he  had  written  on  his  beloved  patron,  a  spasm 
seized  him,  and  he  died  almost  instantly.    This  was  in 

31 


32  INTRODUCTION 

1494,  when  he  had  just  completed  his  fortieth  year. 
Poliziano  ranked  very  high  among  the  scholars  that  con- 
tributed to  the  revival  of  learning.  It  is  said  that  he 
could  think  in  Greek  or  Latin  as  readily  and  exactly  as 
in  his  native  language.  He  made  many  translations 
from  the  classics,  and  published  critical  notes,  plays,  and 
poems.  His  Orfeo  was  the  first  secular  drama  repre- 
sented in  modern  times.  His  complete  works  were  pub- 
lished at  Basle  a  century  and  a  half  after  his  death,  and 
portions  of  them  have  appeared  in  later  editions.  His 
biography  was  written  in  Latin  by  Menckenius. 


THE  WOODLAND  BIRD 

I  found  myself  one  day  all,  all  alone, 

For  pastime  in  a  field  with  blossoms  strewn. 

I  do  not  think  the  world  a  field  could  show 
With  herbs  of  perfume  so  surpassing  rare; 

But  when  I  passed  beyond  the  green  hedgerow, 
A  thousand  flowers  around  me  flourished  fair, 
White,  pied,  and  crimson,  in  the  summer  air; 

Among  the  which  I  heard  a  sweet  bird's  tone. 

I  found  myself  one  day  all,  all  alone. 

For  pastime  in  a  field  with  blossoms  strewn. 

Her  song  it  was  so  tender  and  so  clear 

That  all  the  world  listened  with  love  ;  then  I 

With  stealthy  feet  a-tiptoe  drawing  near, 

Her  golden  head  and  golden  wings  could  spy, 
Her  plumes  that  flashed  like  rubies  'neath  the  sky, 

Her  crystal  beak  and  throat  and  bosom's  zone. 

I  found  myself  one  day  all,  all  alone. 

For  pastime  in  a  field  with  blossoms  strewn. 

Fain  would  I  snare  her,  smit  with  mighty  love  ; 
But  arrow-like  she  soared,  and  through  the  air 

Fled  to  her  nest  upon  the  boughs  above; 
Wherefore  to  follow  her  is  all  my  care. 
For  haply  I  might  lure  her  with  some  snare 

Forth  from  the  woodland  wild  where  she  is  flown. 

3  33 


34  ANGELO  POLIZIANO 

I  found  myself  one  day  all,  all  alone, 

For  pastime  in  a  field  with  blossoms  strewn. 

Yea,  I  might  spread  some  net  or  woven  wile  ; 

But  since  in  singing  she  doth  take  such  pleasure, 
Without  or  other  art  or  other  guile 

I  seek  to  win  her  with  a  tuneful  measure  ; 

Therefore  in  singing  spend  I  all  my  leisure, 
To  make  by  singing  this  sweet  bird  my  own. 

I  found  myself  one  day  all,  all  alone. 

For  pastime  in  a  field  with  blossoms  strewn. 

A  MAY-DAY  SONG 

Welcome  in  the  May 

And  the  woodland  garland  gay! 

Welcome  in  the  jocund  spring, 
Which  bids  all  men  lovers  be! 

Maidens,  up,  with  caroling. 

With  your  sweethearts  stout  and  free, 
With  roses  and  with  blossoms  ye 

Who  deck  yourselves  this  first  of  May! 

Up,  and  forth  into  the  pure 

Meadows,  'mid  the  trees  and  flowers! 

Every  beauty  is  secure 
With  so  many  bachelors: 
Beasts  and  birds  amid  the  bowers 

Glow  with  love  this  first  of  May. 

Maidens  that  are  young  and  fair, 
Be  not  harsh,  I  counsel  you; 

For  your  youth  cannot  repair 

Her  prime  of  spring,  as  meadows  do; 
None  be  proud,  but  all  be  true 

To  men  who  love,  this  first  of  May. 


POEMS  AND  BALLADS.  35 

Dance  and  carol  every  one 

Of  our  band  so  bright  and  gay! 
See  your  sweethearts  how  they  run 

Through  the  jousts  for  you  to-day! 

She  who  saith  her  lover  nay 
Will  deflower  the  sweets  of  May, 

Lads  in  love  take  sword  and  shield 

To  make  pretty  girls  their  prize; 
Yield  ye,  merry  maidens,  yield 

To  your  lovers'  vows  and  sighs; 

Give  his  heart  back  ere  it  dies — 
Wage  not  war  this  first  of  May. 

He  that  steals  another's  heart, 

Let  him  give  his  own  heart  too. 
Who's  the  robber?     'Tis  the  smart 

Little  cherub  Cupid,  who 

Homage  comes  to  pay  with  you. 
Damsels,  to  the  first  of  May. 

Love  comes  smiling;  round  his  head 

Lilies  white  and  roses  meet: 
*Tis  for  you  his  flight  is  sped. 

Fair  ones,  haste  our  king  to  greet! 

Who  will  fling  him  blossoms  sweet — 
Soonest  on  this  first  of  May? 

Welcome,  stranger!     Welcome,  king! 

Love,  what  hast  thou  to  command? 
That  each  maid  with  wreaths  should  ring 

Her  lover's  hair  with  loving  hand; 

That  maidens  one  and  all  should  band 
In  Love's  own  ranks  this  first  of  May. 


36  ANGELO  POLIZIANO 


CHORUS  OF  MONADS 

Bacchus,  we  all  must  follow  thee! 
Bacchus!     Bacchus!     Ohe!     Ohe! 

With  ivy  coronals,  bunch  and  berry, 

Crown  we  our  heads  to  worship  thee! 
Thou  hast  bidden  us  to  make  merry 

Day  and  night  with  jollity. 
Drink,  then!     Bacchus  is  here!     Drink  free, 
And  hand  ye  the  drinking-cup  to  me! 

Bacchus,  we  all  must  follow  thee! 

Bacchus!     Bacchus!     Ohe!     Ohe! 

See,  I  have  emptied  my  horn  already: 

Stretch  hither  your  beaker  to  me,  I  pray; 
Are  the  hills  and  the  lawns  where  we  roam  unsteady. 

Or  is  it  my  brain  that  reels  away? 
Let  every  one  run  to  and  fro  through  the  hay, 
As  ye  see  me  run!      Ho,  after  me! 

Bacchus,  we  all  must  follow  thee! 

Bacchus!     Bacchus!     Ohe!     Ohe! 

Methinks  I  am  falling  in  swoon  or  slumber; 

Am  I  drunken  or  sober,  yes  or  no? 
What  are  these  weights  that  my  feet  encumber? 

You  too  are  tipsy,  well  I  know! 
Let  every  one  do  as  you  see  me  do, 
Let  every  one  drink  and  quaff  like  me! 

Bacchus  we  all  must  follow  thee! 

Bacchus!     Bacchus!     Ohe!     Ohe! 

Cry  Bacchus!      Cry  Bacchus!    Be  blithe  and  merry, 
Tossing  wine  down  your  throats  away! 

Let  sleep  then  come  and  our  gladness  bury: 
Drink  you,  and  you,  and  you,  while  ye  may! 


POEMS  AND  BALLADS.  37 


Dancing  is  over  for  me  to-day. 
Let  every  one  cry  aloud  Evohé! 

Bacchus,  we  all  must  follow  thee! 

Bacchus!     Bacchus!     Ohe!     Ohe! 


PORTRAIT  OF  LA  SIMONETTA 

White  is  the  maid,  and  white  the  robe  around  her, 
With  buds  and  roses  and  thin  grasses  pied  ; 

Enwreathèd  folds  of  golden  tresses  crowned  her, 
Shadowing  her  forehead  fair  with  modest  pride. 

The  wild  wood  smiled — where  her  lover  found  her, 
To  ease  his  heart — and  bloomed  on  every  side; 

Serene  she  sits,  with  gesture  queenly  mild, 

And  with  her  glance  tempers  the  tempests  wild. 

Reclined  he  found  her  on  the  swarded  grass 
In  jocund  mood;  and  garlands  she  had  made 

Of  every  flower  that  in  the  meadow  was, 
Or  on  her  robe  of  many  hues  displayed. 

But  when  she  saw  her  lover  near  her  pass. 
Raising  her  timid  head  awhile  she  stayed; 

Then  with  her  white  hand  gathered  up  her  dress, 

And  stood,  lap  full  of  flowers,  in  loveliness! 


POEMS 

BY 

JACOPO  SANNAZARO 

TRANSLATED  BY  THOMAS  ROSCOE 


39 


INTRODUCTION 

ANNAZARO  was  born  in  Naples  in  1450,  re- 
ceived a  good  education,  and  traveled  exten- 
sively. His  early  poems  brought  him  to  the 
notice  of  King  Frederick  III,  who  became  his 
patron,  and  whom  he  followed  into  exile  in  1501.  His 
most  important  work  is  Arcadia,  a  pastoral  partly  in 
prose  and  partly  in  verse,  which  was  published  in  Venice 
in  1502  and  passed  through  sixty  editions  in  a  century. 
He  wrote  also  poems  and  epigrams  in  Latin,  for  one  of 
which,  in  praise  of  Venice,  the  Venetiém  Senate  awarded 
him  six  hundred  ducats,  equivalent  to  about  three  thou- 
sand dollars  in  our  day.  He  died  in  Naples  in  1530.  An 
edition  of  his  Italian  poems  was  issued  in  Padua  in  1723. 
Salfi,  an  eminent  Italian  critic  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury, wrote  :  "With  a  less  embarrassed  construction  than 
Boccaccio,  and  less  of  servile  mannerism  than  Bembo, 
the  style  of  Sannazaro  is  simple,  flowing,  rapid,  har- 
monious. If  it  should  seem,  now  and  then  too  florid 
and  diffuse,  this  may  be  pardoned  in  a  romance.  It  is 
to  him,  in  short,  that  we  owe  the  revival  of  correctness 
and  elegance  in  the  Italian  prose  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury; and  his  style  in  the  Arcadia  would  have  been  far 
more  relished  than  that  of  the  Asolani,  if  the  originality 
of  his  poetry  had  not  engrossed  our  attention." 


41 


TO  MY  LOVE 

Beloved,  well  thou  know'st  how  many  a  year 

I  dwelt  with  thee  on  earth  in  blissful  love; 

Now  I  am  call'd  to  walk  the  realms  above. 
And  vain  to  me  the  world's  cold  shows  appear. 
Enthron'd  in  bliss,  I  know  no  mortal  fear, 

And  in  my  death  with  no  sharp  pangs  I  strove. 

Save  when  I  thought  that  thou  wert  left  to  prove 
A  joyless  fate,  and  shed  the  bitter  tear. 
But  round  thee  plays  a  ray  of  heavenly  light, 

And,  ah!  I  hope  that  ray  shall  lend  its  aid 
To  guide  thee  through  the  dark  abyss  of  night: 

Weep  then  no  more,  nor  be  thy  heart  dismay'd 
When  close  thy  mortal  days;  in  fond  delight 

My  soul  shall  meet  thee  in  new  love  array'd. 


BLESSED  AND   BEAUTIFUL  SPIRIT 

O  brief  as  bright,  too  early  blest — 

Pure  spirit  freed  from  mortal  care, 
Safe  in  yon  far  off  mansions  of  the  sky; 
There  with  that  angel  take  thy  rest. 

Thy  star  on  earth;  go,  take  thy  guerdon  there; 
Together  quaff  th'  immortal  joys  on  high. 
Pitying  our  earth-low  destiny! 

Display  thy  sainted  beauty  bright, 
'Mid  those  that  walk  the  starry  spheres. 
Through  seasons  of  unchanging  years. 

By  living  fountains,  and  by  fields  of  light, 

43 


44  JACOPO  SANNAZARO 

Leading  thy  blessed  flocks  above; 

And  teach  thy  shepherds  here  to  guard  their  care  with 

love. 
Thine  other  hills  and  other  groves, 

And  streams  and  rivers  never  dry, 
On    whose    fresh    banks    thou    pluck'st    the    amaranth 

flowers  ; 
While,  following  other  loves. 

Through  sunny  glades  the  fauns  glide  by. 
Surprising  the  fond  nymphs  in  happier  bowers. 
Pressing  the  fragrant  flowers, 
Androgeo  there  sings  in  the  summer  shade, 
By  Daphnis'  and  by  Melibaeus'  side. 
Filling  the  vaulted  heavens  wide 
With  the  sweet  music  made; 
While  the  glad  choirs  that  round  appear 
Listen  to  his  dear  voice,  we  may  no  longer  hear. 

As  to  the  elm  is  his  embracing  vine, 

As  their  bold  monarch  to  the  herded  kine  ; 

As  golden  ears  to  the  glad,  sunny  plain, 

Such  wert  thou  to  our  shepherd  youths,  O  swain! 

Remorseless  Death!  if  thus  thy  flames  consume 

The  best  and  loftiest  of  his  race, 
Who  may  escape  his  doom? 

What  shepherd  ever  more  shall  grace 
The  world  like  him;  and  with  his  magic  strain 
Call  forth  the  joyous  leaves  upon  the  woods, 
Or   bid   the    wreathing  boughs    embower   the    summer 
floods  ? 


THREE   SONNETS 

BY 

PIETRO  BEMBO 

TRANSLATED  BY  JAMES  GLASSFORD 


45 


INTRODUCTION 

PIETRO  BEMBO  was  born  in  Venice  in  1470,  of 
a  noble  family,  studied  in  Florence,  where  his 
father  was  ambassador,  and  gave  his  atten- 
tion largely  to  learning  and  literature.  His  first 
publication  was  an  essay  on  Mount  Etna.  With  grace- 
ful manners  and  a  plentiful  wit,  he  became  a  successful 
courtier  and  gained  many  powerful  friends.  He  was 
secretary  to  Pope  Leo  X,  and  on  the  death  of  that  pon- 
tiff, in  1 52 1,  he  retired  to  Padua,  where  he  made  large 
collections  of  books  and  medals,  and  wrote  a  history 
of  Venice,  and  many  poems,  critiques  and  dialogues. 
In  1539  he  was  made  a  cardinal,  and  thenceforth  he 
studied  the  Fathers  and  wrote  on  theological  and  ecclesi- 
astical subjects.  His  mistress,  Morosina,  who  bore  him 
three  children,  and  whom  he  dearly  loved,  was  famed 
for  her  beauty,  and  by  her  good  counsel  she  greatly  ad- 
vanced his  interests.  His  lines  on  Raphael,  in  the  Pan- 
theon, are  one  of  the  most  famous  of  epitaphs: 

Ille  hie  est  Raphael,  timuit  quo  sospite  vinci 
Rerum  magna  parens,  et  moriente  mori. 

"Here  lies  that  Raphael  by  whom,  living,  the  great 
mother  of  things  (Nature)  feared  she  would  be  con- 
quered, and  with  him  dying  to  die." 

Bembo  died  in  Rome  in  1547.  A  collected  edition  of 
his  works  was  published  in  Venice  in  1729.  His  biogra- 
phy by  Beccadelli  had  appeared  eleven  years  earlier. 

47 


TO  ITALY 

FAIR  land,  once  loved  of  Heaven  o'er  all  beside, 

Which  blue  waves  gird  and  lofty  mountains  screen! 

Thou  clime  of  fertile  fields  and  sky  serene, 
Whose  gay  expanse  the  Apennines  divide! 
What  boots  it  now  that  Rome's  old  warlike  pride 

Left  thee  of  humbled  earth  and  sea  the  queen? 

Nations  that  served  thee  then  now  fierce  convene 
To  tear  thy  locks  and  strew  them  o'er  the  tide. 
And  lives  there  son  of  thine  so  base  at  core, 
Who,  luring  foreign  friends  to  thine  embrace. 

Stabs  to  the  heart  thy  beauteous,  bleeding  frame? 

Are  these  the  noble  deeds  of  ancient  fame? 
Thus  do  ye  God's  almighty  name  adore? 
O  hardened  age!    O  false  and  recreant  race! 


"YE  HAUNTS  RECLUSE" 

YE  haunts  recluse,  where  pleased  I  still  retreat 
From  crowds,  and  live  alone,  what  spell  denies 
My  visit,  now  that  PhcEbus  in  our  skies. 

Leaving  the  Twins,  has  gathered  all  his  heat? 

Nowhere  so  calm  and  fell  my  heart  will  beat, 
Or  thoughts  so  far  above  the  earth  can  rise. 
Nowhere  my  spirit,  fed  with  such  supplies, 

Approaches  nearer  to  its  native  seat. 

How  sweet  it  is  in  solitude  to  range 

I  learned  from  thee  ;  sweet  when  the  world  no  more 
Distracts  us,  and  our  anxious  fears  are  laid. 

O  wood  and  stream  beloved,  might  I  exchange 
This  restless  ocean  and  its  burning  shore 
For  thy  fresh  waters  and  thy  verdant  shade! 

4  49 


50  PIETRO  BEMBO 


THE  DREAM 

SWEET  dream,  to  whom  this  stolen  death  I  owe. 
That  steeped  my  sense,  and  bade  my  sorrow  fly. 
Say  by  what  portal  didst  thou  leave  the  sky 

A  messenger  of  peace,  to  gladden  woe? 

What  angel  there  had  breathed  of  one  so  low 
That  moved  thee  on  the  wings  of  love  to  fly? 
Since  wearied  and  forsaken  where  I  lie 

None  but  thyself  alone  can  help  bestow. 

Blest  thou,  who  makest  thus  another  blest. 

Save  that  thou  plyest  thy  wings  in  too  much  haste, 
And  what  thou  gavest  take  back  so  soon  agaia 

Ah,  since  the  way  thou  know'st,  return  at  least, 
And  sometimes  of  that  pleasure  let  me  taste. 
Which,  but  for  thee,  I  should  expect  in  vain! 


THE   AVARICIOUS  WIDOW 

AND 

A   GREEK   HEROINE 

BY 

MATTEO  BANDELLO 
TRANSLATED  BY  THOMAS  ROSCOE 


51 


INTRODUCTION 

w^J^ATTEO  BANDELLO  was  born  in  Castel- 
J  J  J  nuovo,  Piedmont,  in  1480.  He  studied  the- 
^/Xl^  ology,  and  entered  the  Dominican  order.  He 
traveled  through  Italy,  and  then  became  the 
instructor,  in  Milan,  of  Lucrezia  Gonzaga,  a  member  of 
the  famous  family.  At  the  age  of  forty-five,  as  he  had 
sided  with  the  French,  he  was  obliged  to  leave  Italy, 
and  he  settled  in  Agen,  France,  which  was  thenceforth 
his  home.  At  the  age  of  seventy  he  was  made  Bishop 
of  Agen.  He  wrote  poems,  and  translated  the  Hecuba 
of  Euripides  ;  but  his  chief  literary  work  is  his  tales,  the 
manuscript  of  a  part  of  which  was  destroyed  when  he 
was  driven  from  Milan.  These  were  first  published,  in 
three  volumes,  at  Lucca,  in  1554,  and  a  fourth  volume 
in  1573.  As  a  story-teller  he  ranks  next  to  Boccaccio, 
and  Italian  critics  have  praised  him  especially  for  choos- 
ing interesting  subjects  and  adhering  to  probability  in 
his  narrative.  Shakespeare  borrowed  from  Bandello  for 
Twelfth  Night,  Much  Ado  About  Nothing,  and  Romeo  and 
Juliet;  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  for  The  Maid  of  The  Mill 
and  The  Triumph  of  Death,  and  Massinger  for  The  Picture. 
The  latest  Italian  edition  of  his  works  was  published  in 
Turin  in  1853.  The  exact  date  of  Bandello's  death  is 
unknown;  it  took  place  between  1555  and  1562.  John 
Payne  has  made  an  English  translation  of  his  entire 
works,  in  six  volumes. 

63 


THE  AVARICIOUS  WIDOW 

0^ à  N  the  castle  of  Moncaliero,  not  far  from  the  city 
^1  of  Turin,  dwelt  a  widow  named  Zilia  Duca,  whose 
^^3  consort  died  before  she  had  attained  her  twenty- 
fourth  year.  Though  she  was  extremely  beau- 
tiful, her  manners  were  somewhat  abrupt,  resembling 
rather  those  of  a  pretty  rustic  than  of  a  polished  city 
dame.  She  devoted  herself  to  the  education  and  welfare 
of  an  only  son,  between  three  and  four  years  old,  and  re- 
linquished all  idea  of  again  entering  into  the  marriage 
state.  Entertaining  somewhat  narrow  and  avaricious 
views,  she  kept  as  small  an  establishment  as  she  could, 
and  performed  many  menial  offices  usually  left  to  the 
management  of  domestics.  She  rarely  received  or  re- 
turned visits,  stealing  out  on  the  appointed  fasts  early 
in  the  morning  to  attend  mass  at  an  adjoining  church, 
and  returning  home  in  the  same  private  manner. 

It  was  a  general  custom  with  the  ladies  in  that  part 
of  the  world,  whenever  strangers  happened  to  arrive  at 
their  residence,  to  grant  them  a  salute  by  way  of  wel- 
come to  their  roof.  But  the  lady  of  whom  we  speak 
proved  for  once  an  exception  to  this  general  and  hos- 
pitable rule.  For  Messer  Filiberto  da  Virle,  a  gentleman 
and  a  soldier  of  distinguished  prowess  and  esteem,  stop- 
ping at  Moncaliero,  on  his  way  to  Virle,  chanced  also 
to  attend  mass  at  the  same  church  where  Madonna  Zilia 

55 


56  MATTEO  BANDELLO 

was  to  be  seen.  Charmed  with  her  graceful  and  attrac- 
tive air,  no  less  than  with  the  beauty  of  her  countenance, 
he  eagerly  inquired  who  she  was;  and  though  little 
pleased  with  the  avaricious  character  he  heard  attributed 
to  her,  he  tried  in  vain  to  efface  the  impression  she  had 
made.  He  pursued  his  journey  to  Virle,  where,  after 
transacting  his  affairs,  he  resolved  to  retrace  his  steps 
to  Moncaliero,  not  very  far  distant,  and  take  up  his  resi- 
dence there  for  some  time.  With  this  view  he  took  a 
house  not  far  from  the  castle,  availing  himself  of  every 
opportunity  of  throwing  himself  in  the  lady's  way,  and 
resolved  at  all  risks,  and  whatever  might  be  the  labor, 
to  induce  her  to  discontinue  the  unsociable  conduct  of 
which  she  was  accused. 

After  feasting  his  eyes  long  and  vainly  in  her  sight, 
he  contrived  to  obtain  an  introduction  ;  but  she  had  hard- 
ly spoken  two  words  to  him,  when  she  excused  herself, 
and  retreated,  as  usual,  home.  In  truth  she  had  been 
short  with  him,  and  he  felt  it  in  such  a  way  that  he  made 
a  strong  resolution,  which  he  almost  as  suddenly  broke, 
of  renouncing  all  thoughts  of  her  forever.  He  next 
enlisted  some  of  her  own  sex  among  her  most  intimate 
acquaintance  to  employ  their  influence  with  her  to  van- 
quish her  obduracy,  in  order  that,  after  carrying  the  out- 
works, he  might  take  the  castle  of  Moncaliero  by  storm. 
But  the  enemy  was  on  the  alert,  and  all  his  efforts  proved 
futile.  He  looked,  he  sighed,  he  wrote,  he  went  to  mass, 
he  walked  before  and  behind  the  castle,  in  the  woods,  by 
the  river-side,  where  he  threatened  to  drown  himself; 
but  the  lady's  heart  was  more  impregnable  than  a  rock, 
harder   than   everything  except  his  own  fate;   for  she 


THE  AVARICIOUS  WIDOW  57 

deigned  neither  to  smile  upon  nor  to  write  to  him. 
What  should  the  wretched  lover  do?  He  had  already 
lost  his  appetite,  his  complexion,  and  his  rest,  besides  his 
heart,  and  really  felt  very  unwell.  Though  physicians 
were  not  the  persons  to  prescribe  for  such  a  case,  they 
were  nevertheless  called  in,  and  made  him  a  great  deal 
worse;  for  he  was  now  rapidly  advancing  toward  that 
bourne  from  which  neither  lovers  nor  travelers  return; 
and  without  other  help,  it  became  very  evident  that  the 
poor  young  gentleman  w^ould  soon  give  up  the  ghost. 

While  his  life  hung  suspended  in  this  languishing 
state,  one  of  his  friends  and  fellow-offiters,  a  happy  fel- 
low from  Spoleto,  hearing  of  his  condition,  came  posting 
tO'  his  succor,  determined  at  least  to  be  in  time  for  his 
funeral,  and  see  that  all  due  military  honors  were  paid 
to  his  loving  spirit.  When  he  arrived,  Messer  Filiberto 
had  just  strength  enough  to  tell  the  story  of  his  love  and 
the  cruel  disdain  of  the  lady,  intending  afterward,  as  he 
assured  his  friend,  to  think  no  more  about  it,  but  quietly 
to  expire.  His  friend,  however,  having  really  a  regard 
for  him,  and  believing  he  would  grow  wiser  as  he  grew 
older,  strongly  dissuaded  him  from  the  latter  alternative, 
observing  that  he  ought  to  think  about  it;  that  it  was  a 
point  of  honor  on  which  he  ought  to  pique  himself  to 
bring  it,  like  a  good  comedy,  to  a  happy  conclusion. 

"My  poor  Filiberto,"  he  continued,  "leave  the  affair 
to  me,  and  be  assured  you  shall  speak  to  her  as  much 
as  you  please." 

"That  is  all  I  wish,"  exclaimed  the  patient  with  a  lit- 
tle more  animation,  while  a  slight  color  suffused  his 
cheek,  "persuade  her  only  to  listen  to  me,  and  trust  me; 


58  MATTEO  BANDELLO 

I  can  manage  the  rest  myself.  But  it  is  all  a  deception. 
What  can  you  do,  when  I  have  wasted  all  kinds  of  love- 
messages,  gifts,  oaths,  and  promises  in  vain?" 

"Do  you  get  well;  that  is  all  you  have  to  do,"  re- 
turned our  Spoletino,  "and  leave  the  rest  to  me." 

He  spoke  with  so  much  confidence  that  the  patient  in 
a  short  time  grew  wonderfully  better;  and  when  the 
physician  a  few  days  afterward  stepped  in,  he  gave  him- 
self infinite  credit  for  the  improvement  that  had  taken 
place. 

The  reader  must  know  that  the  wits  of  Spoleto  are  re- 
nowned all  over  Italy;  they  are  the  most  loose-tongued 
rattlers,  the  most  diligent  petitioners  for  alms  in  the 
name  of  St.  Antony;  the  most  audacious  and  sleight-of- 
hand  gentry  in  the  world.  They  have  a  very  excellent 
gift  of  talking  and  making  something  out  of  nothing; 
and  no  less  of  persuading  people  to  be  of  their  own  opin- 
ion, almost  against  their  will.  Nearly  the  whole  of  that 
amusing  generation  who  are  in  the  habit  of  getting 
through  the  world  by  easing  the  rich  and  the  simple  of 
their  superfluous  cash,  who  dance  upon  two  poles,  dole 
out  the  grace  of  St.  Paul,  charm  the  dancing  serpents, 
or  sing  wicked  songs  in  the  public  streets,  will  be  found 
to  trace  their  birth  to  Spoleto. 

Messer  Filiberto's  friend  was  well  qualified,  therefore, 
as  a  relative  of  these  itinerant  wits,  to  assist  a  brother 
in  distress,  especially  in  such  a  dilemma  as  that  in  which 
our  hero  found  himself.  Considering  him,  at  least,  suffi- 
ciently convalescent,  our  Spoletino  fixed  upon  a  sort  of 
traveling  pedler  to  forward  the  designs  he  had  formed 
for  the  relief  of  the  unhappy  lover.      Bribing  him  to  ex- 


THE  AVARICIOUS  WIDOW  59 

change  dresses,  he  took  possession  for  a  period  of  his 
collection  of  wares,  consisting  of  every  article  most 
tempting  to  a  woman's  eyes,  either  for  ornament  or  for 
use.  Thus  armed,  he  set  out  in  the  direction  of  Donna 
Zilia's  residence,  announcing  himself  as  the  old  traveling 
merchant  with  a  fresh  supply  of  the  choicest  goods  These 
tidings  reaching  the  ears  of  the  lady,  she  sent  to  desire 
him  to  call  at  her  house,  which  he  directly  entered  with 
the  utmost  familiarity,  as  if  by  no  means  for  the  first 
time,  and  addressed  her  in  the  most  courteous  language 
he  could  command.  He  then  opened  his  treasures,  and 
she  entered  upon  a  review  of  the  whole  assortment,  dis- 
placing and  undervaluing  everything,  while  she  pur- 
chased nothing.  But  fixing  her  eyes  upon  some  beauti- 
ful veils  and  ribbons,  of  which  she  fancied  she  was  in 
want,  she  inquired  how  much  he  expected  for  such  very 
ordinary  articles. 

"If  you  will  sell  them,  good  man,  for  what  they  are 
really  worth,  I  will  take  five-and-thirty  yards  ;  but  if  you 
ask  too  much,  I  will  not  look  at  them  ;  I  will  not  have  a 
single  ell." 

"My  lady,"  replied  the  false  merchant,  "do  my  veils 
indeed  please  you?  They  are  at  your  service,  and  say 
nothing  as  to  the  price  ;  it  is  already  paid.  And  not  only 
these,  but  the  whole  of  this  excellent  assortment  is  your 
own,  if  you  will  but  deign  to  receive  it." 

"No,  no,  not  so,"  cried  the  lady,  "that  would  not  be 
right.  I  thank  you,  good  man;  though  I  certainly 
should  like  to  have  them  at  as  low  a  rate  as  I  can.  So 
ask  what  you  please,  and  I  will  give  what  I  please,  and 
then  we  shall  understand  each  other.     You  gain  your 


60  MATTEO  RANDELLO 

livelihood  in  this  way,  and  surely  it  would  be  cruel,  how- 
ever much  I  might  wish  it,  to  take  them  for  nothing. 
So  deal  fairly  with  me,  and  I  will  give  you  what  I  think 
the  goods  are  really  worth." 

"But,  your  ladyship,  please  you,"  replied  the  wary 
merchant,  "I  shall  consider  it  no  loss,  but  a  favor,  if  you 
will  condescend  to  receive  them  under  no  conditions  at 
all.  And  I  am,  sure  if  you  possess  as  courteous  a  mind 
as  your  face  betokens,  you  will  accept  these  trifles  pre- 
sented to  you  on  the  part  of  one  who  would  gladly  lay 
down  not  only  his  whole  property,  but  his  life  at  your 
feet." 

At  these  words,  the  lady,  "blushing  celestial  rosy  red," 
eyed  the  merchant  keenly  for  a  moment.  "I  am  aston- 
ished to  hear  you  talk  thus,  and  I  insist  upon  knowing 
who  you  really  are.  There  is  some  mystery  in  all  this, 
and  I  am  rather  inclined  to  think  you  must  have  mis- 
taken the  person  to  whom  you  speak." 

The  merchant,  not  in  the  least  abashed,  being  a  native 
of  Spoleto,  acquainted  her  in  the  mildest  and  most  flat- 
tering terms  with  the  long  and  passionate  attachment 
entertained  for  her  by  poor  Messer  Filiberto,  and  the 
delicacy  with  which  he  had  concealed  it  until  the  very 
last.  Handsome,  accomplished,  rich,  and  powerful,  he 
was  prepared  to  lay  all  his  extensive  seigniories  at  her 
feet,  and  account  himself  the  most  fortunate  of  mankind. 
In  short,  he  pleaded  so  eloquently,  and  played  his  part 
so  well,  that  she,  after  a  long  resistance,  consented  to 
see  his  friend.  He  then  hastened  back  to  Messer  Fili- 
berto, who  overwhelmed  him  with  the  most  rapturous 
thanks,  and  lost  no  time  in  preparing  to  pay  a  visit  to 


THE  AVARICIOUS  WIDOW  61 

his  beloved,  who  received  him  at  the  appointed  hour  in 
the  drawing-room  of  her  own  house.  There  was  a  single 
maid-servant  in  her  company,  who  sat  at  work  in  a  re- 
cess, so  that  she  could  hardly  overhear  their  discourse. 

Bending  lowly  before  her,  Messer  Filiberto  expressed 
his  deep  sense  of  the  honor  she  had  conferred  on  him, 
and  proceeded  in  impassioned  terms  to  relate  the  origin 
and  progress  of  his  affection,  his  almost  unexampled 
sufferings,  and  the  sole  hope  that  still  rendered  his  life 
supportable  to  him.  He  further  assured  her  that  his 
gratitude  would  be  eternal,  in  proportion  to  the  amount 
of  the  obligations  under  which  she  laid  him.  The  sole 
reply  he  received  to  his  repeated  and  earnest  protesta- 
tions was,  that  she  was  resolved  to  remain  faithful  to  the 
memory  of  her  departed  consort,  and  devote  herself  to 
the  education  of  her  only  son.  She  was,  moreover,  grate- 
ful for  his  good  opinion,  though  she  was  sure  he  could 
not  fail  to  meet  with  ladies  far  more  beautiful  and  more 
worthy  of  his  regard. 

Finding  that  all  his  efforts  proved  quite  fruitless  and 
that  it  was  impossible  to  make  any  impression,  he  threw 
himself  once  more  at  her  feet  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  de- 
claring that  if  she  possessed  the  cruelty  to  deprive  him 
of  all  hope,  he  should  not  long  survive.  The  lady  re- 
mained silent,  and  Messer  Filiberto  then  summoning  his 
utmost  pride  and  fortitude  to  his  aid,  prepared  to  take 
his  leave,  beseeching  her  only,  in  the  common  courtesy 
and  hospitality  of  the  country,  to  grant  him  in  return 
for  his  long  love  and  sufferings  a  single  kiss,  which 
she  had  before  denied  him,  although  it  was  usually 
yielded  to  strangers  who  entered  an  hospitable  roof. 


62  MATTEO  BANDELLO 

"I  wish,"  replied  Donna  Zilla,  "I  knew  whether  your 
affection  for  me  is  so  strong  as  you  pretend,  for  then,  if 
you  will  but  take  a  vow  to  observe  one  thing,  I  will 
grant  what  you  require.  I  shall  then  believe  I  am  truly 
beloved,  but  never  till  then." 

The  lover  eagerly  swore  to  observe  the  conditions  she 
should  impose,  and  seized  the  price  of  the  promise  he 
had  given. 

"Now,  Signor  Filiberto,"  exclaimed  the  lady,  "pre- 
pare to  execute  the  sentence  I  shall  impose.  It  is  my 
will  and  pleasure  that  you  no  longer  trouble  me  with 
such  entreaties  for  the  future,  at  least  for  some  time; 
and  if  you  are  a  true  knight,  you  will  not  again  unseal 
your  lips  for  the  space  of  three  years." 

The  lover  was  greatly  surprised  and  shocked  on  hear- 
ing so  harsh  and  unjust  a  sentence,  though  at  the  same 
time  he  signified  his  submission  by  his  silence,  merely 
nodding  his  assent.  Soon  afterward  making  the  lady  a 
low  bow,  he  took  his  departure  for  his  own  residence. 
There,  taking  the  affair  into  his  most  serious  considera- 
tion, he  at  last  came  to  the  fixed  resolution  of  submitting 
to  this  very  severe  penalty,  as  a  punishment,  at  least, 
for  his  folly  in  so  lightly  sporting  with  his  oath.  Sud- 
denly, then,  he  became  dumb,  and  feigning  that  he  had 
met  with  some  accident,  he  set  out  from  Moncaliero  on 
his  return  to  Virle.  His  friends  on  finding  him  in  this 
sad  condition  expressed  the  utmost  sorrow  and  surprise; 
but  as  he  retained  his  usual  cheerfulness  and  sense 
enough  to  conduct  his  own  affairs,  they  corresponded 
with  him  as  well  as  if  he  had  retained  the  nine  parts  of 
speech.      Committing  his  affairs  to  the  conduct  of  his 


THE  AVARICIOUS  WIDOW  63 

steward,  a  distant  relative  in  whom  he  had  the  highest 
confidence,  he  determined  to  set  out  on  a  tour  for  France, 
to  beguile,  if  possible,  the  irksomeness  of  his  situation. 
As  he  had  an  extremely  handsome  person,  and  noble  and 
imposing  manners,  the  misfortune  under  which  he  ap- 
peared to  labor  was  doubly  regretted  wherever  our  hero 
made  his  appearance. 

About  the  period  of  his  arrival  in  France,  Charles,  the 
seventh  of  that  name,  was  engaged  in  a  sanguinary  war 
against  the  English,  attempting  to  recover  possession 
of  the  dominions  that  his  predecessors  had  lost.  Having 
already  driven  them  from  Gascony  and  other  parts,  he 
was  busily  preparing  to  follow  up  his  successes  in  Nor- 
mandy. On  arriving  at  this  sovereign's  court,  Messer 
Filiberto  had  the  good  fortune  to  find  several  of  his 
friends  among  the  barons  and  cavaliers  in  the  King's  ser- 
vice, from  whom  he  had  a  very  kind  reception,  which 
was  rather  enhanced  by  their  knowledge  of  the  cruel 
misfortune  under  which  he  labored.  But  as  it  was  not  of 
such  a  nature  as  to  incapacitate  him  for  battle,  he  made 
signs  that  he  wished  to  enter  the  King's  bodyguards; 
and  he  being  a  knight  of  well-known  prowess,  this  reso- 
lution was  much  applauded,  no  less  by  his  Majesty  than 
by  all  his  friends.  Having  equipped  himself  in  a  suit- 
able manner,  he  accompanied  a  division  of  the  army  in- 
tended to  carry  Rouen  by  assault.  Here  he  performed 
such  feats  of  strength  and  heroic  valor  in  the  presence 
of  the  King  as  to  excite  the  greatest  admiration  ;  and  on 
the  third  attack  the  place  was  carried  by  storm.  His 
Majesty  afterward  inquiring  more  particularly  into  the 
history  of  the  valiant  knight,  and  learning  that  he  was 


64  MATTEO  BANDELLO 

one  of  the  lords  of  Virle  in  Piedmont,  at  once  conferred 
upon  him  an  office  in  his  royal  household,  and  pre- 
sented him  with  a  large  sum  of  money  as  an  encourage- 
ment to  persevere  in  the  noble  career  he  had  begun,  ob- 
serving at  the  same  time  that  he  trusted  some  of  his 
physicians  would  be  enabled  to  remove  the  impediment 
in  his  speech.  Our  hero,  smiling  at  this  observation,  ex- 
pressed his  gratitude  for  these  royal  favors  as  well  as 
he  could,  shaking  his  fist  at  the  same  time,  in  token  that 
he  would  punish  his  Majesty's  adversaries. 

Soon  afterward  a  sharp  skirmish  occurred  between 
the  French  and  the  enemy  for  the  possession  of  a  bridge. 
The  affair  becoming  serious,  and  the  trumpets  sounding 
to  arms,  the  King,  in  order  to  encourage  his  troops,  gal- 
loped toward  the  spot.  Talbot,  the  commander  of  the 
English  forces,  was  already  there,  and  had  nearly  ob- 
tained possession  of  the  bridge.  His  Majesty  was  in 
the  act  of  encouraging  his  soldiers,  when  Messer  Fili- 
berto, on  his  black  charger,  passed  him  at  full  speed  with 
his  company.  With  his  lance  in  rest,  he  rode  full  at  the 
horse  of  Talbot,  which  fell  to  the  ground.  Then  seizing 
his  huge  club,  and  followed  by  his  companions,  he  made 
such  terrible  havoc  among  the  English,  that,  dealing 
death  in  every  blow,  he  shortly  dispersed  them  on  all 
sides,  and  compelled  them  to  abandon  their  position  on 
the  bridge.  Their  commander  himself  effected  his  es- 
cape with  difficulty;  while  King  Charles,  following  up 
his  success,  in  a  short  time  obtained  possession  of  the 
whole  of  Normandy. 

On  this  occasion  the  King  returned  public  thanks  to 
the  heroic  Filiberto,  and  in  the  presence  of  all  the  first 


THE  AVARICIOUS  WIDOW  65 

nobility  of  his  kingdom  invested  him  with  the  command 
of  several  castles,  with  a  hundred  men-at-arms  to  attend 
him.  He  now  stood  so  high  in  favor  at  court,  that  the 
monarch  spared  no  expense  to  obtain  the  first  profes- 
sional advice  that  could  be  found  in  every  country,  with 
the  hope  of  restoring  him  to  the  use  of  speech;  and,  after 
holding  a  solemn  tournament  in  honor  of  the  French  vic- 
tories, he  proclaimed  a  reward  of  ten  thousand  francs  to 
be  paid  to  any  physician,  or  other  person,  who  should  be 
fortunate  enough  to  discover  the  means  of  restoring  the 
use  of  speech  to  a  dumb  cavalier  who  had  lost  his  voice 
in  a  single  night.  The  fame  of  this  reward  reaching  as 
far  as  Italy,  many  adventurers,  induced  by  the  hope  of 
gain,  sallied  forth  to  try  their  skill,  but  vainly,  since  it 
w^as  impossible  to  make  him  speak  against  his  will. 

Incensed  at  observing  such  a  concourse  of  people  àt 
his  court  under  the  pretense  of  performing  experiments 
on  the  dumb  gentleman,  until  the  whole  capital  became 
infested  with  quacks,  his  Majesty  ordered  a  fresh  procla- 
mation to  go  forth,  stating  that  whoever  undertook  to 
effect  the  cure  should  thenceforth,  in  case  of  failing  to 
perform  what  he  promised,  be  put  to  death,  unless  he 
paid  down  the  sum  of  ten  thousand  francs.  The  good 
effect  of  this  regulation  was  quickly  perceived  in  the 
diminution  of  pretenders  to  infallible  cures,  few  caring 
to  risk  their  fortunes  or  their  lives,  in  case  of  their  in- 
ability to  pay,  though  they  had  before  been  so  liberal  of 
their  reputatioru 

When  the  tidings  of  Messer  Filiberto's  good  fortune 
and  favor  of  the  French  King's  court  reached  Monca- 
liero.  Donna  Zilia,  imagining  that  his  continued  silence 

5 


66  MATTEO  RANDELLO 

must  be  solely  owing  to  the  vow  he  had  taken,  and  the 
time  being  nearly  expired,  fancied  it  would  be  no  very 
bad  speculation  to  secure  the  ten  thousand  francs  for 
herself.  Not  doubting  that  his  love  remained  still  warm 
and  constant,  and  that  she  really  possessed  the  art  of 
removing  the  dumbness  at  her  pleasure,  she  resolved  to 
lose  no  time  in  setting  off  directly  for  Paris,  where  she 
was  introduced  to  the  commissioners  appointed  to  pre- 
side over  Messer  Filiberto's  case. 

"I  am  come,  my  lords,"  she  observed,  "hearing  that  a 
gentleman  of  the  court  has  for  some  time  past  lost  his 
speech,  to  restore  to  him  that  invaluable  faculty,  possess- 
ing for  that  purpose  some  secret  remedies  which  I  trust 
will  prove  efficacious.  In  the  course  of  a  fortnight  he 
will  probably  be  one  of  the  most  eloquent  men  at  court  ; 
and  I  am  quite  willing  to  take  the  risk  of  the  penalty  if 
I  perform  not  my  engagement  as  required.  There  must, 
however,  be  no  witness  to  my  proceedings;  the  patient 
must  be  entrusted  entirely  to  me.  I  should  not  like 
every  pretender  to  obtain  a  knowledge  of  the  secret  I 
possess;  it  is  one  that  requires  the  utmost  art  in  its  ap- 
plication." 

Rejoiced  to  hear  her  speak  with  so  much  confidence 
on  the  subject,  the  commissioners  immediately  de- 
spatched a  message  to  Messer  Filiberto,  informing  him 
that  a  lady  had  just  arrived  from  Piedmont,  boasting 
that  she  could  perform  what  the  most  learned  of  the 
faculty  in  France  had  failed  to  do,  by  restoring  the  dumb 
to  speech.  The  answer  to  this  was  an  invitation  to 
wait  upon  our  hero  at  his  own  residence,  when  he  recog- 
nized the  cruel  beauty  who  had  imposed  so  severe  a  pen- 


THE  AVARICIOUS  WIDOW  67 

ance,  and  inferred  at  the  same  time  that  she  had  under- 
taken the  journey  not  out  of  any  affection  for  him,  but 
with  the  most  mercenary  views.  Reflecting  on  his  long 
sufferings  and  unrequited  affection,  his  love  was  sudden- 
ly converted  into  a  strong  desire  of  revenge  ;  he  there- 
fore came  to  a  determination  of  still  playing  the  mute, 
and  not  deigning  to  exchange  a  single  word  with  her, 
merely  bowed  to  her  politely  at  a  distance. 

After  some  moments'  silence,  the  lady  finding  that  he 
had  no  inclination  to  speak,  inquired  in  a  gentle  tone 
whether  he  was  at  a  loss  to  discover  in  whose  company 
he  was.  He  gave  her  to  understand  that  he  knew  her 
perfectly  well,  but  that  he  had  not  yet  recovered  his 
speech,  motioning,  at  the  same  time,  with  his  fingers  to- 
ward his  mouth.  On  this,  she  informed  him  that  she 
now  absolved  him  from  his  vow,  that  she  had  traveled 
to  Paris  for  that  purpose,  and  that  he  might  talk  as 
much  as  he  pleased.  But  the  dumb  lover,  only  motion- 
ing his  thanks,  still  continued  as  silent  as  before;  until 
the  lady,  losing  all  patience,  very  freely  expressed  her  dis- 
appointment and  displeasure.  Still  it  availed  her  noth- 
ing, and,  fearful  of  the  consequences  to  herself  if  he  per- 
sisted in  his  unaccountable  obstinacy,  she  at  last  had 
recourse  to  caresses  and  concessions,  which,  whatever 
advantage  he  chose  to  take  of  them,  proved  ultimately 
quite  as  fruitless  to  restore  his  eloquence  as  had  every 
other  means. 

The  tears  and  prayers  of  the  lady  to  prevail  upon  him 
to  speak  became  now  doubly  clamorous,  while  she  sorely 
repented  her  former  cruelty  and  folly,  which  had  brought 
her  into  the  predicament  of  forfeiting  either  ten  thou- 


68  MATTEO  BANDELLO 

sand  francs  or  her  life.  She  would  immediately  have 
been  placed  under  a  military  guard,  had  it  not  been  for 
the  intercession  of  the  dumb  gentleman,  who  made  signs 
that  they  should  desist.  The  penalty,  however,  was  to 
be  enforced;  but  the  lady,  being  of  an  exceedingly  avari- 
cious turn,  resolved  rather  to  die  than  to  furnish  the  pre- 
scribed sum  and  thus  deprive  her  beloved  boy  of  a  por- 
tion of  his  inheritance.  When  she  was  reduced  to  this 
extremity,  Messer  Filiberto,  believing  that  he  had  suffi- 
cietly  revenged  himself,  took  compassion  upon  her  suf- 
ferings, and  hastened  to  obtain  an  audience  of  the  King. 
He  entreated  as  a  special  favor  that  his  Majesty  would 
remit  the  fine,  and  grant  liberty  to  her,  as  well  as  to 
some  other  debtors,  which,  in  the  utmost  surprise  at 
hearing  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the  King  promised  to  do. 

He  then  informed  his  Majesty  of  the  whole  history  of 
his  attachment  to  the  lady,  and  the  strange  results  by 
which  it  had  been  attended  to  both  parties,  though  for- 
tunately all  had  ended  well.  Messer  Filiberto  then  has- 
tened to  hold  an  audience  with  the  lady,  seriously  pro- 
posing to  give  her  a  little  good  advice;  and  she  was 
quite  as  much  rejoiced  as  his  Majesty  when  she  heard 
him  speak. 

"You  may  recollect.  Madam,"  he  observed,  "that  some 
time  ago,  when  at  Moncaliero,  I  expressed  the  most  ar- 
dent and  constant  attachment  to  you,  an  attachment 
which  I  did  not  then  think  that  time  ever  could  have 
diminished.  But  your  conduct  in  cheating  me  into  the 
vow  of  silence,  and  your  cruelty  to  me  as  well  before 
that  time  as  since,  have  wrought  a  complete  change  in 
my  sentiments  toward  you.    I  have  acquired  wealth  and 


THE  AVARICIOUS  WIDOW  69 

honors;  I  stand  high  in  the  favor  of  my  monarch;  and 
having,  I  think,  taken  ample  revenge  upon  you  by  the 
fears  and  trouble  you  have  experienced,  I  have  not  only 
granted  you  your  liberty  and  your  life,  but  ordered  you 
to  be  freely  supplied  with  every  convenience  and  facility 
for  your  return  home.  I  need  not  advise  you  to  conduct 
yourself  in  future  with  care  and  prudence;  as  in  all  the 
economical  virtues  you  are  reputed  to  be  unrivaled  ;  but 
I  would  venture  to  hint,  that  from  the  example  I  have 
in  this  instance  afforded  you,  you  will  be  more  cautious 
how  you  sport  with  the  feelings  of  those  who  love  you, 
as  it  is  an  old  saying  that  the  wily  are  often  taken  in 
their  own  nets." 

He  then  provided  her  with  an  honorable  escort  and 
money  to  defray  her  expenses,  while  he  himself  not  long 
afterward  received  the  hand  of  a  young  beauty  of  the 
court,  bestowed  upon  him  by  his  royal  master.  By  this 
union  he  received  an  accession  of  several  castles  and  do- 
mains, and  sent  for  his  witty  young  friend  from  Spoleto 
to  share  with  him  a  portion  of  his  prosperity.  Still  re- 
taining his  favor  at  court,  upon  the  death  of  Charles 
VII,  he  continued  to  enjoy  the  same  appointments  and 
the  same  influence  under  Louis  XI,  his  successor. 


70  MATTEO  RANDELLO 


A  GREEK  HEROINE 

^■■^  URINO  the  period  of  my  captivity  among  the 
JrJ  Turks,  which  continued  more  than  forty  years, 
^^P  I  was  conducted  by  different  masters  into  va- 
rious places,  more  especially  throughout  Greece, 
whose  most  rich  and  beautiful  regions  are  subjected  to 
the  Mahomedan  sway.  There  I  met  with  an  instance 
that  may  be  recovmted  with  advantage  amongst  the  most 
celebrated  stories  on  record  of  the  courageous  conduct  of 
noble  ladies  at  different  periods  of  history.  The  incident 
of  which  I  am  about  to  speak  arose  out  of  the  siege  of 
Goccino,  in  the  island  of  Lemnos,  invaded  at  that  time 
by  the  Turkish  armament  from  the  iEgean  Sea.  Hav- 
ing in  vain  attempted  to  storm  Lepanto,  all  the  efforts 
of  the  infidels  were  now  directed  against  the  walls  of 
Goccino,  which  were  battered  with  such  united  strength 
and  fury,  that  one  of  the  chief  gates  at  length  fell  with 
a  loud  crash,  and  the  Turks  rushed  exultingly  forward 
to  secure  their  entrance.  This  was  as  bravely  disputed 
by  the  Venetian  soldiers,  assisted  by  the  inhabitants,  and 
even  by  the  women  of  the  place,  who  vied  with  each 
other  in  risking  their  lives  in  order  to  avoid  the  outrages 
of  the  Mahomedan  soldiery.  There  was  a  certain  war- 
rior named  Demetrius,  a  native  of  the  town,  who  dis- 
tinguished himself  on  this  occasion  above  all  his  com- 
rades by  the  fearless  valor  with  which  he  confronted  the 
fiercest  of  the  enemy.     He  stood  the  very  foremost  man. 


A  GREEK  HEROINE  71 

and  hurled  the  infidels  back  from  the  gate  with  incredi- 
ble strength  and  prowess,  till  the  gateway  was  half 
blocked  up  with  the  slain,  and  he  still  continued  to  ex- 
hort his  countrymen  to  the  fight,  until,  pierced  with  a 
thousand  wounds,  he  fell  upon  the  dead  bodies  of  his 
enemies. 

Among  the  women  that  displayed  the  courage  of  the 
bravest  warriors  was  a  daughter  of  this  hero,  who,  in 
the  act  of  encouraging  the  soldiers  to  follow  to  her 
father's  rescue,  witnessed  his  fall.  She  was  of  a  noble 
and  imposing  figure,  and  though  only  in  her  twentieth 
year,  evinced  the  utmost  fortitude  under  the  perils  that 
surrounded  her.  Her  name  was  Manilla,  and  she  was 
no  less  strikingly  beautiful  than  intrepidly  courageous. 
Instead  of  yielding  herself  up  to  lamentations  and  despair 
on  beholding  the  heroic  fate  of  her  sire,  she  exhorted 
his  fellow  citizens  to  revenge  his  death,  and,  seizing  his 
sword,  led  them  forward  with  increased  energy  to  the 
attack.  With  the  rage  of  a  hungry  lioness  springing 
upon  a  herd  of  cattle,  she  fell  upon  the  nearest  of  her 
foes,  dealing  death  on  cdl  sides  in  the  name  and  with 
the  spirit  of  her  father.  In  the  enthusiasm  of  the  mo- 
ment numbers  of  her  own  sex,  following  her  example, 
encouraged  the  soldiers  to  make  fresh  exertions;  and 
such  was  the  impression  produced  by  this  conduct  that 
the  invaders  were  speedily  overpowered  and  driven  to 
take  refuge  in  their  ships.  Those  who  had  not  the  good 
fortune  to  escape  were  indiscriminately  put  to  the  sword, 
and  thus,  by  the  heroic  example  of  a  single  woman,  the 
chief  city  and  the  whole  island  of  Lemnos  were  relieved 
from  the  invasion  of  the  infidels. 


72  MATTEO  BANDELLO 

I  was  myself  told  by  their  commander,  Morsbecco,  one 
of  their  most  able  and  distinguished  captains,  when  I 
was  a  prisoner  at  Constantinople,  and  he  was  giving  an 
account  of  this  desperate  engagement,  that  as  soon  as  he 
beheld  the  Grecian  heroine  rushing  amidst  the  thickest 
of  his  troops,  he  felt  as  if  all  his  former  courage  and  con- 
fidence had  forsaken  him;  a  circumstance  that  he  never 
recollected  to  have  happened  to  him  during  the  numer- 
ous battles  and  campaigns  in  which  he  had  been  en- 
gaged. 

On  the  liberation  of  the  island,  Antonio  Loredano,  the 
Venetian  admiral,  arriving  with  a  strong  force,  and  hear- 
ing of  the  extraordinary  exploits  of  the  maiden  Marulla, 
immediately  requested  to  be  introduced  to  her,  when  he 
expressed  the  greatest  admiration  both  of  her  conversa- 
tion and  appearance.  In  presence  of  the  Venetian  sol- 
diers and  the  citizens  of  Goccino,  he  next  bestowed  the 
highest  praises  on  her  unequaled  generosity  and  hero- 
ism, her  filial  affection,  and  other  virtues,  for  all  of  which 
she  was  so  proudly  distinguished.  He  then  presented 
her  with  several  rich  gifts  on  the  part  of  the  republic, 
and  his  example  was  immediately  followed  by  the  com- 
manders of  the  galleys  and  by  the  people  of  the  island, 
who  vied  with  each  other  in  laying  their  contributions 
at  her  feet.  When  more  than  sufficient  for  a  handsome 
marriage  portion  had  been  collected,  the  admiral  pro- 
ceeded to  address  the  young  heroine  in  the  following 
words  : 

"Most  excellent  and  noble  lady,  in  order  to  convince 
you  of  the  sincerity  with  which  our  Venetian  senate  is 
ever  inclined  to  honor  real  worth,  in  whichever  sex  it 


A  GREEK  HEROINE  73 

may  be  found,  and  display  its  gratitude  for  the  obliga- 
tions conferred  upon  it,  I  have  here  offered  you  these 
slight  tokens  of  its  regard.  Deign  to  accept  them  as 
an  earnest  only  of  higher  rewards,  when  I  shall  have 
forwarded  to  our  noble  senators  a  more  particular  ac- 
count of  the  splendid  actions  you  have  performed  in 
defense  of  their  territories  and  of  the  country  to  which 
you  owe  your  birth.  In  the  mean  time,  bright  and 
beautiful  as  you  are  brave,  should  you  deign  to  cast 
your  eye  on  the  first  and  proudest  of  your  countrymen 
who  have  fought  at  your  side,  be  assured  that  he  will 
feel  himself  honored  by  such  a  preference,  and  that  his 
interests  will  be  nobly  promoted  by  our  senate  of 
Venice." 

In  returning  her  grateful  thanks  to  the  admiral  and 
the  Venetian  republic  for  the  generous  consideration  of 
her  poor  services,  the  maiden  heroine,  in  reference  to  the 
last  article  of  their  proposals,  replied  that,  high  as  she 
estimated  true  bravery,  it  was  by  no  means  superior 
physical  courage  and  daring  deeds  in  man  that  consti- 
tuted his  highest  claims  to  her  regard.  These,  without 
the  still  nobler  attributes  of  an  intellectual  and  moral 
character,  were  nearly  worthless  in  her  eyes  when  des- 
titute of  those  virtues  which  embellish  an  unstained  and 
upright  life,  and  produce  great  and  honorable  actions. 

Repeated  plaudits  and  commendations  from  all  ranks 
of  people  immediately  followed  this  truly  noble  and 
beautiful  reply  ;  the  admiral  afterward  declaring  that  the 
innate  worth  and  wisdom  exhibited  in  her  language  and 
demeanor  had  not  merely  surpassed  his  expectations,  but 
deserved  to  be  compared  with  the  happiest  instances  of 


74  MATTEO  BANDELLO 

feminine  excellence  and  accomplishments  recorded  in  the 
annals  either  of  Greece  or  of  Rome. 

An  accurate  and  eloquent  account  of  the  whole  of  this 
interesting  scene  was  shortly  afterward  despatched  to 
the  noble  senators  of  Venice,  who,  entering  upon  a  con- 
sideration of  the  singular  merits  of  their  fair  champion, 
not  only  decreed  that  her  espousals  should  be  splendidly 
provided  for  and  celebrated  by  the  republic,  but  that 
numerous  privileges  and  exemptions  from  the  public 
burdens  imposed  upon  her  fellow  subjects  should  be 
likewise  secured  to  her  and  to  her  children  forevermore. 


POEMS 

BY 
VITTORIA  COLONNA 


75 


(i 


INTRODUCTION 

F  the  women  that  contributed  to  early  Italian 
literature,  Vittoria  Colonna  ranks  first,  cer- 
tainly in  popular  estimation,  if  not  in  actual 
poetic  gift.  She  was  a  member  of  a  powerful 
family,  and  was  born  in  the  castle  of  Marino  about  1490. 
Her  father,  Fabrizio  Colonna,  was  Grand  Constable  of 
the  kingdom  of  Naples,  and  her  mother  was  a  daughter 
of  the  Duke  of  Urbino.  In  childhood  Vittoria  was  be- 
trothed to  Francesco  d'  Avalos,  Marquis  of  Pescara,  who 
was  also  a  child,  and  at  the  age  of  seventeen  they  were 
married.  They  were  deeply  in  love,  and  they  spent  the 
next  four  years  at  his  castle  in  the  island  of  Ischia.  Then 
he  entered  the  army  of  Charles  V,  and  was  captured  at 
the  battle  of  Ravenna.  He  was  offered  the  kingdom  of 
Naples  if  he  would  leave  the  service  of  the  Emperor  for 
that  of  the  French,  but  Vittoria  prevented  him,  saying 
that  she  would  rather  be  the  wife  of  a  great  and  faithful 
soldier  than  of  a  king.  But  he  received  many  wounds 
in  action,  and  died  in  Milan.  At  the  age  of  thirty-four 
she  was  a  childless  widow,  and  the  remaining  twenty- 
three  years  of  her  life  were  devoted  to  the  memory  of 
the  only  man  she  ever  loved.  She  resided  at  various 
places  in  Italy,  and  had  many  eminent  friends,  including 
Cardinals  Bembo,  Pole  and  Contarini,  and  in  her  last 
years  Michelangelo,  whO'  stood  by  her  death-bed.    Some 

of  his  sonnets  to  her  are  contained  in  this  series.      She 

77 


78  INTRODUCTION 

died  in  Rome  in  1547,  leaving  the  memory  of  an  unblem- 
ished character,  a  sympathetic  disposition,  high  scholar- 
ship, and  delicate  poetic  powers.  A  Portuguese  artist, 
Francesco  d'Olanda,  who  saw  her  in  her  last  years,  thus 
recorded  his  impression  of  her:  "Madonna  Vittoria  Co- 
lonna is  one  of  the  most  excellent  and  famous  women  of 
Europe — that  is,  of  the  whole  civilized  world.  Not  less 
chaste  than  beautiful,  learned  in  Latin  literature,  and 
full  of  genius,  she  possesses  all  the  qualities  and  virtues 
that  are  praiseworthy  in  woman.  After  the  death  of  her 
hero  husband,  she  now  leads  a  modest  and  retired  life. 
Tired  of  the  splendor  and  grandeur  of  her  former  state, 
she  gives  her  whole  affections  to  Christ  and  to  serious 
studies.  To  the  poor  she  is  beneficent,  and  she  is  a 
model  of  true  Catholic  devotion."  The  "hero  husband" 
whom  she  loved  and  adored  was  undoubtedly  a  hero  in 
the  strict  military  sense;  but  for  a  piece  of  stupendous 
treachery  he  was  execrated  throughout  Italy. 


FAITH 

Father  of  heaven  !  if  by  thy  mercy's  grace 

A  living  branch  I  am  of  that  true  vine 

Which  spreads  o'er  all — and  would  we  did  resign 
Ourselves  entire  by  faith  to  its  embrace! 
In  me  much  drooping,  Lord,  thine  eye  will  trace. 

Caused  by  the  shade  of  these  rank  leaves  of  mine, 

Unless  in  season  due  Thou  dost  refine 
The  humor  gross,  and  quicken  its  dull  pace. 
So  cleanse  me  that,  abiding  e'er  with  Thee, 
I  feed  me  hourly  with  the  heavenly  dew, 
And  with  my  falling  tears  refresh  the  root. 
Thou  saidst,  and  Thou  art  truth,  thou'dst  with  me  be; 
Then  willing  come,  that  I  may  bear  much  fruit, 
And  worthy  of  the  stock  on  which  it  grew. 


QUATRAIN 

Now  as  the  light  streams  gently  from  above. 
Sin's  gloomy  mantle  bursts  its  bonds  in  twain, 
And,  robed  in  white,  I  seem  to  feel  again 
The  first  sweet  sense  of  innocence  and  love. 


ASPIRATION 

If  I  have  conquered  self,  by  Heaven's  strength, 
'Gainst  carnal  reason  and  the  senses  striven, 
With  mind  renewed  and  purged,  I  rise  at  length 
Above  the  world  and  its  false  faith  to  heaven. 

79 


80  VITTORIA  COLONNA 

My  thoughts,  no  longer  now  depressed  and  vain. 

Upon  the  wings  of  faith  and  hope  shall  rise, 

Nor  sink  into  this  vale  of  tears  again, 

But  find  true  peace  and  courage  in  the  skies. 

I  fix  my  eye  still  on  the  better  way; 

I  see  the  promise  of  the  Eternal  Day. 

Yet  still  my  trembling  steps  fall  erringly. 

To  choose  the  right-hand  path  I  must  incline — 

That  sacred  passage  toward  the  life  divine; 

And  yet  I  fear  that  life  may  ne'er  be  mine. 


ON  HER  WIDOWHOOD 

The  sun  no  longer  gives  its  beauteous  light 
To  the  green  earth,  nor  to  the  moon  by  night. 
No  more  for  me  the  dazzling  planets  bum; 
Nor  the  eternal  stars  on  their  bright  axes  turn. 
No  more  shall  I  on  Valor  rest  mine  eye, 
Fled  is  true  honor  and  high  chivalry. 
The  world  no  longer  manly  glory  yields; 
The  woods  no  verdure,  and  no  flowers  the  fields. 
The  turbid  waves  are  dark,  and  black  the  air; 
No  heat  the  fire,  no  scent  the  zephyrs  bear; 
And  everything  has  lost  its  proper  care. 
Since  quenched  my  sun  darkly  in  earth  doth  lie. 
Nature  to  me  hath  lost  its  charm,  or  I 
Have  lost  all  sense  of  it  through  my  calamity. 


A  PRAYER 

Humility,  with  ploughshare  sharp  and  strong, 
Its  furrows  deep  within  my  heart  must  wake, 
And  all  the  bitter,  stagnant  waters  take. 
Clearing  away  the  earthly  and  the  wrong. 


POEMS  81 

Lest  these  should  drown  and  those  choke  up  the  seed, 

Cumbering  the  ground  with  rubbish  and  with  weed. 

Nay,  rather  spread  a  better  soil  around, 

And  pray  that  gentle  dew  from  heaven  be  found, 

And  the  heavens'  love  to  fructify  the  flower, 

Nor  idly  wait  till  the  last  awful  hour, 

When  all  is  swallowed  in  eternal  night. 

O  Humble  One,  leave  me  not  in  such  plight, 

But  manifest  thyself  in  this  sad  heart; 

Banish  dark  thoughts,  and  bid  my  pride  depart. 


POEMS   AND    SONNETS 

BY 

LORENZO  DE'  MEDICI 

TRANSLATED  BY  WILLIAM  ROSCOE 


88 


INTRODUCTION 

0^^  ORENZO  the  Magnificent,  as  he  was  called,  was 
jjl  t  born  in  Florence  January  i,  1448.  He  was  a 
^Smm  precocious  boy,  and  wrote  good  poetry  at  a 
very  early  age.  He  received  a  liberal  educa- 
tion, and  visited  the  various  courts  of  Italy.  In  1469  he 
married  a  daughter  of  the  powerful  house  of  Orsini,  and 
in  the  same  year  his  father,  Pietro  de'  Medici,  died.  At 
the  request  of  many  eminent  citizens,  Lorenzo  assumed 
the  place  that  had  been  filled  by  his  grandfather  and  his 
father  as  virtual  ruler  of  Florence.  He  had  thwarted  a 
conspiracy  to  assassinate  his  father,  and  had  shown  evi- 
dence of  a  talent  for  statesmanship,  and  he  accepted  the 
office.  He  headed  an  embassy  to  Rome  in  1471,  to  con- 
gratulate Sixtus  IV  on  his  accession,  and  became  the 
Papal  treasurer.  Yet  Sixtus  afterward  became  an  enemy 
to  him,  because  Lorenzo  brought  about  an  alliance  of 
Florence,  Milan  and  Venice,  to  protect  the  minor  Italian 
states  against  the  aggressions  of  the  Pope.  The  enmity 
of  Sixtus  culminated  in  an  attempt  to  assassinate  Loren- 
zo and  his  brother  Giuliano  in  church,  during  the  cele- 
bration of  mass,  April  26,  1478,  which  succeeded  so  far 
as  Giuliano  was  concerned.  But  Lorenzo,  with  the  help 
of  friends,  defended  himself,  and  nearly  all  the  conspira- 
tors were  put  to  death.  This  incident,  known  as  the 
conspiracy  of  the  Pazzi,  forms  the  subject  of  a  tragedy 

85 


86  INTRODUCTION 

by  Alfieri,  which  is  included  in  another  volume  of  this 
series.  At  the  same  time  the  Archbishop  of  Pisa  at- 
tempted to  get  possession  of  the  Florentine  government 
house,  but  was  prevented,  and  the  magistrates  hanged 
him  from  one  of  its  windows,  together  with  several  of 
the  Pazzi.  The  only  member  of  that  family  who  escaped 
summary  punishment  was  one  that  Lorenzo  took  into 
hrs  own  house  and  protected.  The  Pope  then  excom- 
municated Lorenzo  and  the  magistrates,  and  in  alliance 
with  the  King  of  Naples  made  war  upon  Florence. 
Lorenzo  boldly  went  to  Naples,  won  the  King  over  to 
his  side,  and  signed  a  treaty  of  alliance  with  him. 
Another  unsuccessful  attempt  to  assassinate  him  in 
church  was  made  in  1481.  The  new  Pope,  Innocent 
VIII,  was  friendly  to  Lorenzo,  and  the  Medici  family 
and  Florence  profited  greatly  by  his  friendship.  Lo- 
renzo died  in  1492,  leaving  three  sons,  one  of  whom 
became  Pope  Leo  X. 

Lorenzo  was  a  patron  of  art  and  literature,  and  by  es- 
tablishing schools  and  libraries  he  so  far  exceeded  his 
means  that  he  became  bankrupt,  and  Florence  paid  his 
debts.  His  collected  works  were  published  in  Florence 
in  1826  (4  volumes).  His  biography  has  been  written 
by  William  Roscoe,  who  adds  some  of  his  poems  taken 
from  the  original  manuscripts  in  the  Laurentian  Library 
in  Florence. 


:his 


I  he  ma  hanged 

gether  .  eral  of 

was  one   i      •.    .... ^...-    :--j 

protected.      The  Pope  then  excom- 

.*d  Lorenzo  and  the  magistratca,  and  in  alliance 

«'3th  the    i'  Naples  made    war   upon    Florence. 

-:■  bolGi}  ''"    '  '      ^'"•ng  over  to 

p.nci  with   him. 

Anothe-  assassinate    him    in 

Pope,   Innocent 
Vili.  -  ;hc   Medici  family 

ar.d    F'  THE   COURT   OF   LORENZO   DÉ'   'M^^Ì&T       ^' 

whom 


From  a  Painting  by  Nicaise  de  Keyset 


became 

I  .  ,  and  by  es- 

nc  y-j  ici    exceeded  his 

;  I,  and  Florence  paid  his 

del.  d  works  were  published  in  Florence 

In   i82(;  His  biography  has  been  written 

■^v'  Willian.  o  adds  some  of  his  poems  taken 


APOSTROPHE  TO  HIS  GENIUS 

Rise  from  thy  trance,  my  slumbering  genius,  rise, 
That  shrouds  from  truth's  pure  beam  thy  torpid  eyes! 
Awake,  and  see,  since  reason  gave  the  rein 
To  low  desire,  thy  every  work  how  vain. 
Ah,  think  how  false  that  bliss  the  mind  explores, 
In  futile  honors,  or  unbounded  stores; 
How  poor  the  bait  that  would  thy  steps  decoy 
To  sensual  pleasure  and  unmeaning  joy. 
Rouse  all  thy  powers,  for  better  use  designed, 
And  know  thy  native  dignity  of  mind; 
Not  for  low  aims  and  mortal  triumphs  given, 
Its  means  exertion,  and  its  object  heaven. 

Hast  thou  not  yet  the  difference  understood, 
'Twixt  empty  pleasure  and  substantial  good? 
Not  more  opposed,  by  all  the  wise  confessed, 
The  rising  orient  from  the  farthest  west. 

Doomed  from  thy  youth  the  galling  chain  to  prove 
Of  potent  beauty,  and  imperious  love, 
Their  tyrant  rule  has  blighted  all  thy  time. 
And  marred  the  promise  of  thy  early  prime. 
Though  beauty's  garb  thy  wondering  gaze  may  win, 
Yet  know  that  wolves,  that  harpies  dwell  within. 

Ah,  think,  how  fair  thy  better  hopes  had  sped. 
Thy  widely  erring  steps  had  reason  led; 
Think,  if  thy  time  a  nobler  use  had  known, 
Ere  this  the  glorious  prize  had  been  thine  own. 
Kind  to  thyself,  thy  clear  discerning  will 
Had  wisely  learnt  to  sever  good  from  ill. 
Thy  spring-tide  hours  consumed  in  vain  delight, 
Shall  the  same  follies  close  thy  wintry  night? 

87 


88  LORENZO  DE'  MEDICI 

With  vain  pretexts  of  beauty's  potent  charms, 
And  nature's  frailty,  blunting  reason's  arms? 

At  length  thy  long-lost  liberty  regain, 
Tear  the  strong  tie,  and  break  the  inglorious  chain, 
Freed  from  false  hopes,  assume  thy  native  powers, 
And  give  to  Reason's  rule  thy  future  hours; 
To  her  dominion  yield  thy  trusting  soul, 
And  bend  thy  wishes  to  her  strong  control; 
Till  Love,  the  serpent  that  destroyed  thy  rest, 
Crushed  by  her  hand,  shall  mourn  his  humbled  crest. 


TO  A  LADY  WEEPING 

Ah,  pearly  drops,  that,  pouring  from  those  eyes. 
Spoke  the  dissolving  cloud  of  soft  desire! 
What  time  cold  sorrow  chill'd  the  genial  fire, 

"Struck  the  fair  urns  and  bade  the  waters  rise." 

Soft  down  those  cheeks,  where  native  crimson  vies 
With  ivory  whiteness,  see  the  crystals  throng; 
As  some  clear  river  winds  its  stream  along. 

Bathing  the  flowers  of  pale  and  purple  dyes. 

Whilst  Love,  rejoicing  in  the  amorous  shower. 
Stands  like  some  bird,  that  after  sultry  heat 
Enjoys  the  drops,  and  shakes  his  glittering  wings. 

Then  grasps  his  bolt,  and,  conscious  of  his  power, 
'Midst  those  bright  orbs  assumes  his  wonted  seat, 
And   through   the   lucid   shower  his   living  lightning 
flings. 

A  LOVER'S  CHAINS 

Dear  are  those  bonds  my  willing  heart  that  bind, 
Form'd  of  three  cords,  in  mystic  union  twined; 
The  first  by  beauty's  rosy  fingers  wove. 
The  next  by  pity,  and  the  third  by  love. 


POEMS  AND  SONNETS  89 

The  hour  that  gave  this  wondrous  texture  birth, 
Saw,  in  sweet  union,  heaven,  and  air,  and  earth; 
Serene  and  soft  all  ether  breathed  delight, 
The  sun  diffused  a  mild  and  temper'd  light; 
New  leaves  the  trees,  sweet  flowers  adorned  the  mead, 
And  sparkling  rivers  gushed  along  the  glade. 
Reposed  on  Joy's  own  breast  his  favorite  child, 
The  Cyprian  queen  beheld  the  scene  and  smiled; 
Then,  with  both  hands,  from  her  ambrosial  head 
And  amorous  breast  a  shower  of  roses  shed; 
The  heavenly  shower  descending  soft  and  slow, 
Poured  all  its  fragrance  on  my  fair  below; 
Whilst  all  benign  the  ruler  of  the  spheres 
To  sounds  celestial  opened  mortal  ears. 


PLATONIC  AFFECTION 

As  from  their  wintry  cells. 

The  summer's  genial  warmth  impels 

The  busy  ants — a  countless  train 

That  with  sagacious  sense  explore. 

Where,  provident  for  winter's  store. 

The  careful  rustic  hides  his  treasured  grain. 

Then  issues  forth  the  sable  band, 

And  seizing  on  the  secret  prize. 

From  mouth  to  mouth,  from  hand  to  hand, 

His  busy  task  each  faithful  insect  plies. 
And  often  as  they  meet. 

With  scanty  interval  of  toil. 

Their  burdens  they  repose  awhile. 

For  rest  alternate  renders  labor  sweet. 

The  traveled  path  their  lengthened  tracks  betray, 

And  if  no  varied  cates  they  bear. 

Yet  ever  is  the  portion  dear. 

Without  whose  aid  the  powers  of  life  decay: 


90  LORENZO   DE'  MEDICI 

Thus  from  my  faithful  breast, 
The  busy  messengers  of  love, 
Incessant  toward  my  fair  one's  bosom  move; 
But  in  their  way  some  gentle  thought 
They  meet,  with  kind  compassion  fraught, 
Soft  breathing  from  that  sacred  shrine, 
Where  dwells  a  heart  in  unison  with  mine, 
And  in  sweet  interchange  delight  a  while  to  rest. 


DECADENCE  OF  THE  SEASONS 

Into  a  little  close  of  mine  I  went 

One  morning,  when  the  sun  with  his  fresh  light 

Was  rising  all  refulgent  and  unshent. 
Rose-trees  are  planted  there  in  order  bright, 

Whereto  I  turned  charmed  eyes,  and  long  did  stay. 

Taking  my  fill  of  that  new-found  delight. 
Red  and  white  roses  bloomed  upon  the  spray; 

One  opened,  leaf  by  leaf,  to  greet  the  morn, 

Shyly  at  first,  then  in  sweet  disarray; 
Another,  still  a  youngling,  newly  bom, 

Scarce  struggled  from  the  bud,  and  there  were  some 

Whose  petals  closed  them  from  the  air  forlorn  ; 
Another  fell,  and  sowed  the  grass  with  bloom. 

Thus  I  beheld  the  roses  dawn  and  die, 

And  one  short  hour  their  loveliness  consume. 
But  while  I  watched  those  languid  petals  lie 

Colorless  on  cold  earth,  I  could  but  think 

How  vain  a  thing  is  youthful  bravery. 
Trees  have  their  time  to  bloom  on  winter's  brink  ; 

Then  the  rath  blossoms  wither  in  an  hour. 

When  the  brief  days  of  spring  toward  summer  sink 
The  fruit,  as  yet  unformed,  is  tart  and  sour; 

Little  by  little  it  grows  large,  and  weighs 

The  strong  boughs  down  with  slow  persistent  power; 


POEMS  AND  SONNETS  91 

Nor  without  peril  can  the  branches  raise 
Their  burden;  now  they  stagger  'neath  the  weight 
Still  growing,  and  are  bent  above  the  ways; 
Soon  autumn  comes,  and  the  ripe,  ruddy  freight 
Is  gathered:  the  glad  season  will  not  stay; 
Flowers,  fruit,  and  leaves  are  now  all  desolate- 
Pluck  the  rose,  therefore,  maiden,  while  'tis  May. 

ORISONS 

All  nature,  hear  the  sacred  song! 

Attend,  O  Earth,  the  solemn  strain! 

Ye  whirlwinds  wild  that  sweep  along; 

Ye  darkening  storms  of  beating  rain; 

Umbrageous  glooms,  and  forests  drear  : 

And  solitary  deserts,  hear! 
Be  still,  ye  winds,  whilst  to  the  Maker's  praise 
The  creature  of  His  power  aspires  his  voice  to  raise. 

Oh,  may  the  solemn  breathing  sound 
Like  incense  rise  before  the  throne, 
Where  He  whose  glory  knows  no  bound, 
Great  cause  of  all  things,  dwells  alone. 
'Tis  He  I  sing,  whose  powerful  hand 
Balanced  the  skies,  outspread  the  land  ; 
Who  spoke^ — from  ocean's  store  sweet  waters  came. 
And  burst  resplendent  forth  the  heaven-aspiring  flame. 

One  general  song  of  praise  arise 

To  Him  whose  goodness  ceaseless  flows; 

Who  dwells  enthroned  beyond  the  skies, 

And  life,  and  breath,  on  all  bestows. 

Great  source  of  intellect,  His  ear 

Benign  receives  our  vows  sincere: 
Rise,  then,  my  active  powers,  your  task  fulfil, 
And  give  to  Him  your  praise,  responsive  to  my  will. 


92  LORENZO   DE'  MEDICI 

Partaker  of  that  living  stream 
Of  light,  that  pours  an  endless  blaze, 
Oh,  let  thy  strong  reflected  beam, 
My  understanding,  speak  His  praise. 
My  soul,  in  steadfast  love  secure. 
Praise  Him  whose  word  is  ever  sure; 
To  Him,  sole  just,  my  sense  of  right  incline, 
Join  every  prostrate  limb,  my  ardent  spirit  join. 

Let  all  of  good  this  bosom  fires 
To  Him,  sole  good,  give  praises  due: 
Let  all  the  truth  Himself  inspires 
Unite  to  sing  Him  only  true. 
To  Him  my  every  thought  ascend, 
To  Him  my  hopes,  my  wishes,  bend. 
From  earth's  wide  bounds  let  louder  hymns  arise, 
And  His  own  words  convey  the  pious  sacrifice. 

In  ardent  adoration  join'd, 

Obedient  to  Thy  holy  will, 

Let  all  my  faculties  combined. 

Thy  just  desires,  O  God,  fulfil. 

From  Thee  derived,  eternal  King, 

To  Thee  our  noblest  powers  we  bring; 
Oh,  may  Thy  hand  direct  our  wandering  way. 
Oh,  bid  Thy  light  arise,  and  drive  the  clouds  away. 

Eternal  Spirit!  whose  command 
Light,  life,  and  being,  gave  to  all. 
Oh,  hear  the  creature  of  Thy  hand, 
Man,  constant  on  Thy  goodness  call! 
By  fire,  by  water,  air,  and  earth. 
That  soul  to  Thee  that  owes  its  birth, 
By  these,  he  supplicates  Thy  blest  repose. 
Absent  from  Thee  no  rest  his  wandering  spirit  knows. 


FOUR   SONNETS 

BY 

GASPARA  STAMPA 

TRANSLATED  BY  GEORGE  FLEMING 


INTRODUCTION 

^^■rHE    Italian    Sappho,    as    she   has  been   called— 
/  I  Gaspara  Stampa — was  born  in  Padua  in  1523, 

^^^  of  Milanese  parents.  While  she  was  still  a 
child  she  lost  her  father,  and  later  her  only 
brother.  She  was  carefully  nurtured  and  finely  educa- 
ted by  her  mother,  with  whom  she  removed  to  Venice. 
Her  accomplishments  included  a  knowledge  of  Greek 
and  Latin,  singing,  and  playing  the  lute.  She  was  fa- 
mous for  her  beauty  as  well  as  for  her  intellect,  and  had 
many  friends  and  admirers  among  the  artists  and  au- 
thors. At  the  age  of  twenty-six  she  and  the  Count  of 
Collalto  (who  was  of  the  same  age)  fell  in  love  with 
each  other  at  first  sight.  This  passion  took  complete 
possession  of  her  soul  and  inspired  her  finest  poems. 
For  three  years  hope  was  bright,  life  was  a  romance,  and 
love  seemed  eternal.  But  the  Count,  ambitious  for  an 
active  life,  went  to  Paris  and  spent  several  months  at 
the  court  of  Henry  II.  It  is  said  that  he  there  came 
under  the  influence  of  Diana  of  Poitiers,  tlie  King's  mis- 
tress, who  was  twenty-four  years  his  senior.  However 
this  may  be,  he  certainly  forgot  his  brilliant  and  beau- 
tiful love  in  Venice,  and  when  he  returned  thither  his 
indifference  and  the  rumor  that  he  was  to  marry  a  lady 
of  rank  broke  her  heart.  She  expressed  her  sorrow  and 
her  despair  in  several  pathetic  poems,  and  died  in  her 
thirtieth  year — by  poison,  it  is  said,  though  the  shock 
and  the  grief  were  evidently  enough  for  a  fatal  result. 

£5 


96  INTRODUCTION 

Collalto  was  greatly  admired  and  profusely  flattered;  he 
was  himself  a  respectable  poet,  his  portrait  was  painted 
by  Titian,  and  every  door  was  open  to  him.  But  all 
this  was  eclipsed  by  the  tributes  that  were  paid  to  the 
woman  he  had  deserted.  Parabosco,  a  Venetian  poet 
and  musician,  who  knew  her  well,  wrote  :  "You  would 
not  believe  it  possible  to  find  so  much  perfection  in  one 
human  being — so  much  beauty  united  with  so  much 
grace  and  sweetness  and  good  sense.  But  what  shall  I 
say  of  her  angelic  voice,  whose  accents  penetrate  the 
coldest  hearts  and  bring  tears  to  the  eyes?"  He  com- 
posed a  special  chant  for  her  funeral.  Varchi,  the  Flor- 
entine poet,  said  he  was  consoled  by  the  belief  that  she 
would  live  forever.  Titian  spoke  of  her  as  virtuous  and 
noble.  Tiraboschi  classed  her  with  the  most  famous 
poets.  Betuzzi  wrote  an  eulogy  on  her,  saying:  "O 
Love,  veil  thy  face  and  break  thy  bow,  for  she  whose 
eyes  mirrored  thee  is  dead."  And  Lucrezia  Gonzaga, 
Gaspara's  contemporary,  wrote  :  "I  have  read  more  than 
a  thousand  times  the  sonnet  composed  by  the  noble  lady 
Gaspara  Stampa.  It  appeared  to  me  so  marvelously 
and  beautifully  done  that  I  could  hardly  believe  it  was 
composed  by  a  woman." 

Petrarch  was  Gaspara  Stampa's  master  in  poetry.  She 
left  nearly  a  hundred  sonnets  and  madrigals,  which  a 
short  time  before  her  death  she  arranged  and  sent  with 
an  introductory  letter  to  her  recreant  lover.  Her  sister 
published  the  poems  in  1556,  and  many  of  her  letters 
have  been  preserved  as  well.  But  no  portrait  of  her 
remains.  Eugene  Benson  has  written  her  story  in  Eng- 
lish, and  George  Fleming  has  translated  her  sonnets. 


SHE  DESCRIBES  HER  LOVER 

An  intellect  angelic  and  divine; 

A  princely  nature;  brave  and  very  true; 

A  noble  craving  for  ambition's  due  ; 
Deliberate  speech,  precious  and  slow  and  fine; 
Blood  equal  to  the  loftiest  kingly  line; 

A  fortune  far  above  the  common  view 

A  youth  in  flower,  of  very  perfect  hue; 
A  bearing  honest,  simple,  and  benign; 
A  face  to  far  outshine  the  shining  sun; — 

Out  of  all  these  behold  what  Love  hath  wrought! 

Chains  tempered  as  were  never  chains  before. 

0  gracious  Love!      I  pray  thee  hark  to  one 

Who   'gainst   these  sweet,   these  honored   chains   has 

fought  ; 
I  pray  thee  bid  them  bind  me  evermore. 

SHE  ADMONISHES  HER  LOVER 

Go  then,  my  Lord,  and  with  a  happy  heart, 
To  where  desire  is  calling  on  your  name, 
Bidding  you  send  to  heaven  your  winged  fame 

Safe  from  oblivion  and  from  death's  own  dart. 

Remember,  ay,  remember  as  we  part. 
You  leave  me  like  some  solitary  dove 
Who  by  the  clearest  stream  yet  mourns  her  love 

And  flies  each  verdant  tree  to  dwell  apart. 

To  mine  own  heart  keep  trusty  company, 
Nor  give  your  pledged  life  to  other  hands, 

Since  it  to  me  was  promised  faithfully. 

When  then  you  turn  you  homeward  from  far  lands 

If  so  it  chanceth  that  I  dead  should  lie, 

1  charge  you,  think!    Who  was  more  true  than  I? 

7  97 


98  GASPARA  STAMPA 

SHE  BEMOANS  THE  RUIN  OF  LOVE,  BUT 
MAY  NOT  TELL  THE  REASON 

Who  would  believe  it?     /  was  happy  here, 

Where,  turn  by  turn,  now  grief,  now  dear  delight, 
Or  fear,  oppressed  my  heart,  or  hope  was  bright, 

And  heaven  now  was  clouded,  now  was  clear. 

To  see  the  flowery  meads  of  Love  appear 
In  all  their  glory,  in  my  judgment's  sight 
Requires  th'  admixture  of  contentious  might. 

When  sad  displeasure  maketh  bliss  more  dear; 

But  now  so  full  of  sorry  thorns  they  show, 

And  harshest  briars,  no  fair  flowers  are  there, 
Where  only  poisonous  serpents  hiss  and  dwell. 

0  faith  forsworn!     O  my  dear  hopes  laid  low 
By  envious  fortune^ — all  their  roots  laid  bare! 

1  know  why  this  thing  is,  but  may  not  tell. 

SHE  DICTATES  HER  OWN  EPITAPH 

Weep,  O  ye  women!     Set  Love  weeping  too, 

For  that  he  weeps  not,  he  that  wounded  me  ; 

Soon  shall  my  weary  soul  departed  be 
From  this  tormented  body  which  he  knew. 
And  if  some  gentle  charity  would  do 

Aught  to  fulfil  a  last  request  of  mine. 

When  I  am  lying  dead  within  the  shrine. 
Write  this  sad  history  of  my  grief  in  view: 
"Because  she  loved  much  and  was  little  loved 

She  lived  and  died  in  pain;  she  rests  in  peace, 
Most  faithful  lover  that  was  ever  proved. 

Pray,  passer-by,  for  her  repose  and  ease. 
Learn  her  life's  lesson:  how  a  heart  unmoved, 

A  fickle  heart,  to  love  she  could  not  cease." 


CAUSES   AND    PRINCIPLES 

His  Own  Analysis  of  "An  Account  of  the  Infinite 
Universe  and  Innumerable  Worlds." 

BY 

GIORDANO  BRUNO 

TRANSLATED  BY  JOHN  TOLAND 


INTRODUCTION 

/^•■^^RUNO — independent  thinker,  author,  educator, 
4lu  n^^rtyr — was  bom  near  Naples  about  1550. 
^Vl||"  He  studied  theology,  and  became  a  Dominican. 
But  when  his  views  on  religious  questions 
changed  he  was  obliged  to  leave  the  order.  He  went 
to  Geneva  in  1580,  but  found  no  welcome,  as  his  belief 
differed  widely  from  Calvinism.  In  1582  he  went  to 
Paris,  became  a  lecturer,  and  v/rote  a  comedy  entitled 
//  canddajo.  In  his  lectures  he  attacked  the  Aristotelian 
philosophy,  and  thus  gained  the  ill-will  of  the  clergy  and 
many  of  the  scholars,  eo  that  Paris  was  no  longer  the 
place  for  him.  He  went  to  England  in  1583,  and  be- 
came a  friend  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  There  he  wrote 
some  of  his  philosophical  works,  the  m.ost  important  of 
which  are  Delia  causa,  principio  ed  uno,  and  Dell'  infinito 
iiniz'crso  e  moiidi. 

Aftenvard  he  went  to  Germany  and  lectured  at  sev- 
eral universities.  He  unwisely  went  to  Venice  in  1592, 
where  he  was  arrested  by  officers  of  the  Inquisition  and 
sent  to  Rome.  There  he  was  imprisoned  seven  years, 
was  tried  for  heresy,  and  finally  was  handed  over  to  the 
civil  powers,  by  whom  he  was  condemned  and  burned  at 
the  stake,  February  17,  1600. 

Bruno's    philosophy    has   been    much    discussed,    and 

probably   much   misunderstood,    owing  to   the    extreme 

scarcity  of  his  works.      The    German  philosopher   and 

critic,  Johann  Buhle  (1763-1821),  analyzed  and  explained 

101 


102  INTRODUCTION 

it  at  length,  and  later  writers  are  commonly  indebted  to 
his  interpretation.  Hallam  summarizes  it  thus:  "The 
system  of  Bruno  may  be  said  to  contain  a  sort  of  double 
pantheism.  The  v/orld  is  animated  by  an  omnipresent 
intelligent  soul,  the  first  cause  of  every  form  that  mat- 
ter can  assume,  but  not  of  matter  itself.  This  soul  of 
the  universe  is  the  only  physical  agent,  the  interior  art- 
ist that  works  in  the  vast  whole,  that  calls  out  the  plant 
from  the  seed,  and  matures  the  fruit;  that  lives  in  all 
things,  though  they  may  not  seem  to  live,  and  in  fact 
do  not,  when  vmorganized,  live  separately  considered, 
though  they  all  partake  of  the  imiversal  life,  and  in  their 
component  parts  may  be  rendered  living.  A  table  as  a 
table,  a  coat  as  a  coat,  are  not  alive;  but,  inasmuch  as 
they  derive  their  substance  from  nature,  they  are  com- 
posed of  living  particles.  There  is  nothing  so  small  or 
so  unimportant  but  that  a  portion  of  spirit  dwells  in  it; 
and  this  spiritual  substance  requires  but  a  proper  subject 
to  become  a  plant  or  an  animal.  The  soul  of  the  world 
is  the  constituent  principle  of  the  universe  and  of  all  its 
parts.  The  first  matter  is  neither  corporeal  nor  sensible  ; 
it  is  eternal  and  unchangeable,  the  fruitful  mother  of 
forms,  and  their  grave." 

We  have  chosen  for  presentation  here  a  comparatively 
brief  analysis  or  summary  of  Bruno's  chief  work,  writ- 
ten by  himself,  which  is  perfectly  clear  to  the  reader  who 
might  be  swamped  in  an  attempted  perusal  of  the  ex- 
tended work  itself.  The  interest  of  it  consists  largely  in 
its  exhibition  of  a  knowledge  and  power  of  reasoning 
that  placed  Bruno,  with  his  friend  Galileo,  far  ahead  of 
his  time. 


CAUSES  AND  PRINCIPLES 

A  DEDICATION   to  the  Most  Illustrious   Lord, 
Michael   de   Castelnau,   Lord   of   Mauvissier, 
Concressault,    and    Joinville,    Knight   of   the 
Order  of  his  Most  Christian  Majesty,  one  of 
the  members  of  his  Privy  Council,  Captain  of  fifty  Men- 
at-Arms,  and  Ambassador  to  the  Most  Serene  Queen  of 
England. 

If  I  had  held  the  plow,  most  illustrious  Lord,  or  fed 
a  flock,  or  cultivated  a  garden,  or  mended  old  clothes, 
none  would  distinguish  and  few  would  regard  me  ;  fewer 
yet  would  reprehend  me,  and  I  might  easily  become 
agreeable  to  everybody.  But  now^  for  describing  the 
field  of  Nature,  for  being  solicitous  about  the  pasture  of 
the  soul,  for  being  curious  about  the  improvement  of  the 
understanding,  and  for  showing  some  skill  about  the 
faculties  of  the  mind,  one  man,  as  if  I  had  an  eye  to 
himself,  does  menace  me;  another,  for  being  only  ob- 
served, does  assault  me;  for  coming  near  this  man,  he 
bites  me;  and  for  la5/ing  hold  of  that  other,  he  devours 
me.  'Tis  not  one  that  treats  me  in  this  manner,  nor  are 
they  a  few;  they  are  many,  and  almost  all. 

If  you  would  know  whence  this  does  proceed,  my 
Lord,  the  true  reason  is,  that  I  am  displeased  with  the 
bulk  of  mankind;  I  hate  the  vulgar  rout,  I  despise  the 
authority  of  the  multitude,  and  I  am  enamored  of  one 

103 


104  GIORDANO  BRUNO 

particular  lady.  'Tis  for  her  that  I  am  free  in  servi- 
tude, content  in  pain,  rich  in  necessity,  and  alive  in 
death;  and  therefore  'tis  likewise  for  her  that  I  envy 
not  those  who  are  slaves  in  the  midst  of  liberty,  who 
suffer  from  pain  in  their  enjoyment  of  pleasure,  who 
are  poor  though  overflowing  with  riches,  and  dead  when 
they  are  reputed  to  live;  for  in  their  body  they  have 
the  chain  that  pinches  them,  in  their  mind  the  hell  that 
overwhelms  them,  in  their  soul  the  error  that  makes 
them  sick,  and  in  their  judgment  the  lethargy  that  kills 
them,  having  neither  generosity  to  undertake  nor  per- 
severance to  succeed,  nor  splendor  to  illustrate  their 
works,  nor  learning  to  perpetuate  their  names.  Hence 
it  is,  even  from  my  passion  for  this  beauty,  that  as 
being  weary  I  draw  not  back  my  feet  from  the  difficult 
road,  nor,  as  being  lazy,  hang  dov/n  my  hands  from  the 
work  that  is  before  me.  I  turn  not  my  shoulders,  as 
grown  desperate,  to  the  enemy  that  contends  with  me; 
nor,  as  dazzled,  divert  my  eyes  from  the  divine  object. 

In  the  mean  time,  I  know  myself  for  the  most  part 
accounted  a  sophister,  more  desirous  to  appear  subtle 
than  to  be  really  solid  ;  an  ambitious  fellow,  that  studies 
rather  to  set  up  a  new  and  false  sect  than  to-  confirm  the 
ancient  and  true  doctrine;  a  deceiver  that  aims  at  pur- 
chasing brightness  to  his  own  fame  by  engaging  others 
in  the  darkness  of  error;  a  restless  spirit,  that  over- 
turns the  edifice  of  sound  discipline,  and  makes  himself 
a  founder  of  some  hut  of  perversity.  But,  my  Lord,  so 
may  all  the  holy  deities  deliver  me  from  those  that  un- 
justly hate  me,  so  may  my  own  God  be  ever  propitious 
to  me,  so  may  the  governors  of  this  our  globe  show  me 


CAUSES  AND  PRINCIPLES  105 

their  favor,  so  may  the  stars  furnish  me  with  such  a 
seed  for  the  field,  and  such  a  field  for  the  seed,  that  the 
world  may  reap  the  useful  and  glorious  fruit  of  my  labor 
by  awakening  the  genius  and  opening  the  understanding 
of  such  as  are  deprived  of  light;  so  may  all  these  things 
happen,  I  say,  as  it  is  most  certain  that  I  neither  feign 
nor  pretend.  If  I  err,  I  am  far  from  thinking  that  I 
do  so;  and  whether  I  speak  or  write,  I  dispute  not  for 
the  mere  love  of  victory  (for,  without  Truth,  I  look  upon 
all  reputation  and  conquest  as  most  vile  and  dishonor- 
able, and  hateful  to  God)  ;  but  'tis  for  the  love  of  true 
Wisdom,  and  by  the  studious  admiration  of  this  mis- 
tress, that  I  fatigue,  and  disquiet,  and  torment  myself. 

This  will  be  made  evident  by  the  demonstrative  argu- 
ments I  offer,  drawn  from  lively  reasons,  as  these  are 
derived  from  regulated  sense,  which  is  informed  by  posi- 
tive ideas,  that  like  so  many  ambassadresses  are  sent 
abroad  from  the  subjects  of  Nature,  being  obvious  to 
those  that  seek  for  them,  clear  to  those  that  conceive 
them,  distinct  to  those  that  consider  them,  and  certain 
to  those  that  comprehend  them.  But  'tis  time  that  I 
present  you,  my  Lord,  with  my  Contemplations  about 
the  infinite  Universe  and  innumerable  Worlds. 

The  Argmncnt  of  the  First  Dialogue 

In  this  Dialogue,  then,  you  will  find,  first,  that  the 
inconstancy  of  our  senses  shows  they  are  not  the  prin- 
ciple of  certitude,  which  is  acquired  only  by  a  kind  of 
comparison,  or  by  conferring  one  sensible  object  or  one 
sense  with  another;  and  so  it  is  concluded  that  the  same 
truth  may  be  in   different  subjects,  as  in  the  sensible 


106  GIORDANO  BRUNO 

object  and  in  the  understanding,  as  well  as  how  it  is 
possible  that  this  can  be. 

Secondly,  you  come  to  the  beginning  of  the  demon- 
stration for  the  infinity  of  the  universe,  whereof  the  first 
argument  alleged  is,  that  those  who  by  their  imagina- 
tions would  set  walls  or  bounds  to  it  are  not  able  them- 
selves to  assign  or  fix  the  extremities  of  it. 

Thirdly,  you  will  perceive  the  absurdity  of  saying  that 
the  world  is  finite,  and  that  it  is  in  itself;  from  which 
notion  of  being  in  itself  (which  agrees  only  with  what 
is  immense)  is  taken  the  second  argument  for  the  in- 
finity of  the  universe. 

The  third  argument  is  taken  from  so  inconvenient  and 
impossible  an  imagination  as  to  say  that  the  world  is 
nowhere;  whence  it  would  unavoidably  follow  that  it 
has  no  existence;  for  everything  whatsoever,  be  it  cor- 
poreal or  incorporeal,  must  be  corporeally  or  incorporeal- 
ly  in  some  place. 

The  fourth  argument  is  taken  from  this  demonstration, 
or  very  urgent  objection  proposed  by  the  Epicureans  : 

Nimirum,  si  jam  finitum  constituatur 
Omne  quod  est  spatium,  si  quis  procurrat  at  oras 
Ultimus  extremas,  jaciatque  volatile  telum; 
Invalidis  utrum  contortum  viribus  ire 
Quo  fuerit  missum  mavis  longeque  volare. 
An  prohibere  aliquid  censes  obstareque  posse? 
Nam  sive  est  aliquid  quod  prohibet  officiatque, 
Quo  minus  quo  missum  est  veniat,  finique  locet  se, 
Sive  foras  fertur,  non  est  ea  fini'  profecto. 

The  fifth  argument  is,  that  the  definition  of  place 
given  by  Aristotle  (the  superficies  of  the  circumambient 
body)   does  not  agree  with  the  first,  the  greatest,  and 


CAUSES  AND  PRINCIPLES  107 

the  most  common  of  all  places;  and  that  it  cannot  take 
in  the  next  and  immediate  surface  to  the  body  contained, 
with  other  such  slight  observations  that  make  place  to 
be  a  mathematical  and  not  a  physical  thing;  for  between 
the  superficies  of  the  body  containing  and  the  super- 
ficies of  the  body  contained  (which  is  moved  within  the 
same)  there  is  always  necessarily  an  intermediate  space, 
which  according  to  this  definition  ought  rather  to  be 
reckoned  the  place;  and  if  of  this  space  we  would  only 
take  the  superficies,  we  must  then,  as  you  shall  see,  in 
an  infinite  look  for  a  finite  place. 

The  topic  of  the  sixth  argument  is,  that  by  making 
the  world  finite  a  vacuum  cannot  be  avoided,  if  that  be 
void  where  there  is  nothing;  though  we  shall  evince 
this  void  to  be  impossible. 

The  seventh  is,  that  as  the  space  wherein  this  world 
or  universe  exists  would  be  understood  to  be  void  if  the 
world  had  not  been  in  it,  so  that  space  must  be  void 
where  the  world  is  not.-  Had  it  not  been  for  the  world, 
therefore,  this  space  would  be  indifferent  from  that,  and 
the  one  has  the  same  aptitude  with  the  other  ;  whence  it 
will  follow  that  it  has  also  the  same  actualness;  since 
no  aptitude  is  eternal  without  an  actual  occupation,  and 
so  it  has  the  act  eternally  joined  to  its  passi veness,  and 
is  itself  the  very  act;  because  actual  and  possible  ex- 
istence are  not  different  in  eternity. 

The  eighth  argument  is,  that  none  of  the  senses  ex- 
cludes infinity,  since  we  cannot  deny  it  merely  because 
not  comprehended  by  any  of  our  senses;  but  rather 
assert  it,  because  by  it  the  senses  are  comprehended, 
and  reason  comes  to  their  help  to  confirm  it.     Nay,  if 


108  GIORDANO  BRUNO 

we  further  consider,  our  senses  do  ever  suppose  infinity, 
since  we  always  see  one  thing  terminated  by  another 
thing;  and  that  we  never  perceived  anything  by  internal 
or  external  sense  that  was  not  terminated  either  by  a 
thing  like  itself  or  by  some  other  thing  different  from 
itself. 

Ante  oculos  et  enim  rem  res  finire  videtur. 

Aer  dissepit  coUes,  atque  aera  montes, 

Terra  mare,  et  contra  mare  terras  terminat  omncs 

Omne  quidem:  vero  nihil  est  quod  finiat  extra, 

Usque  adeo  passim  patet  ingens  copia  rebus, 

Finibus  exemptis  in  cunctas  undique  partes. 

Even  by  what  we  see,  then,  we  ought  rather  to  infer 
infinity  than  otherwise;  because  nothing  occurs  in  na~ 
ture  that  it  not  terminated  by  another,  and  no  one  thing 
whatsoever  is  terminated  by  itself. 

The  ninth  argument  is  taken  from  hence,  that  infinite 
space  can  be  only  denied  in  words,  as  those  who  are  per- 
tinacious use  to  do  ;  considering  that  such  parts  of  space 
where  the  world  is  not,  which  are  accounted  nothing, 
cannot  be  conceived  without  an  aptitude  to  contain,  no 
less  than  that  part  which  does  actually  contain. 

The  tenth  from  hence,  that  if  the  existence  of  this  our 
world  be  good  or  convenient,  it  is  no  less  good  or  con- 
venient that  there  be  infinite  others  like  it. 

The  eleventh,  that  the  goodness  of  this  world  is  not 
possibly  communicable  to  any  other  world,  as  my  being 
is  not  communicated  to  this  or  that  other  man.  The 
force  of  this  argument  you  will  see  in  its  place. 

The  twelfth,  that  there  is  no  reason  or  sense  that  sup- 
poses an  individual,  most  simple,  and  complicating  in- 


CAUSES  AND  PRINCIPLES  109 

finite,  but  may  admit  of  a  corporeal  and  explicated  in- 
finite. 

The  thirteenth,  that  this  space,  which  to  us  appears 
so  great,  is  neither  a  part  nor  the  whole  with  respect 
to  infinity;  nor  can  it  be  the  subject  of  an  infinite  opera- 
tion, to  which  what  cannot  be  comprehended  by  our  im- 
becility is  as  a  nonentity.  And  here  an  answer  is  given 
to  a  certain  objection  ;  for  we  say  that  we  do  not  assert 
infinity  for  the  dignity  of  mere  space,  but  for  that  of 
nature;  since  by  whatever  reason  this  space  or  atmos- 
phere of  ours  exists,  by  the  same  reason  ought  the  space 
of  every  other  globe  to  be  that  can  exist,  and  v/hose 
power  is  not  actuated  by  ours,  as  the  power  of  the  being 
of  Elpinus  is  not  actuated  by  the  actual  being  of  Fra- 
castorius. 

The  fourteenth  argument  is  taken  from  this,  that  if 
infinite  active  power  actuates  a  corporeal  and  dimen- 
sional being,  this  being  must  necessarily  be  infinite; 
otherwise,  you  derogate  from  the  nature  and  dignity  of 
that  which  can  make  and  of  that  vrhich  can  be  made. 

The  fifteenth,  that  this  universe,  conceived  in  the  vul- 
gar sense,  cannot  be  otherwise  said  to  comprehend  the 
perfection  of  all  things  than  as  I  comprehend  the  per- 
fection of  all  my  members  and  as  every  globe  whatever 
is  contained  in  itself;  just  as  we  say  that  the  man  is  rich 
who  wants  nothing  of  what  he  has. 

The  sixteenth,  that  the  infinite  efficient  cause  would 
be  absolutely  defective  without  an  infinite  effect  ;  and  yet 
that  we  cannot  conceive  this  effect  to  be  purely  the 
cause  itself  :  to  which  we  add,  that  if  yet  it  was  or  is  so, 
nothing  however  is  taken  away  of  that  which  ought  to 


no  GIORDANO  BRUNO 

be  in  the  true  effect;  whence  the  divines  have  coined 
such  expressions  as  God's  action  ad  evira,  or  his  tran- 
sient as  well  as  his  emanent  acts,  for  thus  the  one  be- 
comes as  infinite  as  the  other. 

The  seventeenth,  that  as  by  conceiving  the  infinity 
of  the  universe  the  understanding  rests  fully  satisfied, 
so  by  asserting  the  contrary  it  is  unavoidably  plunged 
into  innumerable  difficulties  and  inconveniences;  besides 
that  in  this  place  is  occasionally  repeated  what  was  said 
in  the  second  and  third  arguments. 

The  eighteenth,  that  if  the  world  be  spherical,  it  is 
likewise  figurated  and  bounded;  and  consequently,  that 
whatever  space  is  beyond  it  (though  you  may  please  to 
call  it  nothing)  is  no  less  figurated,  its  concavity  being 
necessarily  joined  to  the  convexity  of  the  world  ;  for  just 
where  your  nothing  begins  there  must  needs  be  a  con- 
cavity different  from  the  convexitudinal  superficies  of 
this  world. 

The  nineteenth  argument  is  only  some  addition  to 
what  has  been  said  in  the  second. 

The  twentieth  is  an  occasional  repetition  of  what  is 
said  in  the  tenth. 

In  the  Second  Part  of  this  Dialogue  that  which  is 
already  demonstrated  by  the  passive  power  of  the  Uni- 
verse is  likewise  demonstrated  by  the  active  power  of 
the  efficient  cause,  and  this  by  several  arguments. 

The  first  is  taken  from  hence,  that  the  divine  efficacy 
cannot  stand  idle;  especially  granting  it  any  effects  dis- 
tinct from  its  proper  substance  (if  indeed  anything  can 
be  distinct  from  it),  and  that  it  must  be  no  less  idle  and 


CAUSES  AND  PRINCIPLES  m 

invidious  in  producing  a  finite  effect  than  in  producing 
none  at  all. 

The  second  argument  is  taken  from  human  practise, 
because  by  the  contrary  opinion  is  abolished  the  reason 
of  the  goodness  and  greatness  of  God;  whereas  it  is 
shown  that  no  inconvenience  follows  upon  ours  to  any 
system  of  laws  or  divinity  whatsoever. 

The  third  argument  is  convertible  with  the  twelfth  of 
the  First  Part;  and  the  difference  is  declared  between 
the  infinite  whole  and  what  is  wholly  infinite. 

The  fourth  argument  is,  that  Omnipotence,  in  making 
the  world  finite,  is  no  less  blamable  for  not  being  willing 
than  for  not  being  able  to  make  it  otherwise;  and  also 
for  being  an  infinite  agent  upon  a  finite  subject. 

The  fifth  enters  into  the  particulars  of  this,  and  shows 
that  if  God  does  not  make  the  world  infinite  He  cannot 
make  it  so,  and  that  if  He  has  not  power  to  make  it  in- 
finite He  has  not  strength  to  preserve  it  infinitely;  nay, 
that  if  He  is  finite  in  one  respect  He  must  be  so  in  every 
respect;  because  in  Him  every  mode  is  a  thing,  and  ev- 
ery particular  mode  and  thing  is  the  selfsame  in  Him 
with  every  other  mode  or  thing.  The  diversity  consists 
in  our  different  -ways  of  conceiving  Him. 

The  sixth  argument  is  convertible  with  the  tenth  of 
the  First  Part;  and  the  cause  is  shown  why  divines,  not 
without  expedient  reason,  maintain  the  contrary;  with 
a  word  concerning  the  friendship  that  ought  to  be  cul- 
tivated between  them  and  the  truly  learned  philosophers. 

The  seventh  argument  proposes  the  distinction  be- 
Lv»7een  the  oneness  of  the  active  power  and  the  diversity 
of  actions,   giving  the  true  solution   of  the   same;   be- 


112  GIORDANO  BRUNO 

sides  that  infinite  power  acting  intensively  and  exten- 
sively is  more  profoundly  considered  than  ever  has  been 
done  hitherto  by  the  body  of  divines. 

The  eighth  argument  shows  that  the  motion  of  in- 
finite worlds  is  not  from  an  external  mover,  but  is  in- 
trinsically in  themselves,  and  yet  that  there  is  an  infinite 
mover  too. 

The  ninth  shows  that  infinite  motion  is  intensively 
verified  in  each  of  these  worlds  ;  to  which  may  be  added 
that  from  the  consideration  of  a  movable  thing  being  at 
one  and  the  same  time  put  in  motion,  and  yet  moving  of 
itself,  it  follows  that  it  may  at  one  and  the  same  tim.e 
be  in  every  point  of  the  circle  it  describes  about  its  own 
center.  But  another  time  we  shall  resolve  this  difficulty 
when  we  have  leisure  to  give  a  more  diffusive  plan  of 
our  doctrine. 

The  Argument  of  the  Second  Dialogue 

The  same  subject  is  pursued  in  the  Second  Dialogue, 
where,  in  the  first  place,  four  arguments  are  produced, 
whereof  the  first  is,  that  all  the  attributes  of  the  Divin- 
ity are  as  any  one  of  them.  The  second,  that  our  imagi- 
nation cannot  possibly  be  thought  to  extend  beyond  the 
Divine  Activity.  The  third  is  taken  from  the  indiffer- 
ence of  the  Divine  Intellect  and  Action,  and  that  infinita 
is  not  less  understood  than  finite.  The  fourth  is  built 
upon  this,  that  if  corporeal  quality  (I  mean  that  which 
is  sensible  to  us)  has  an  infinite  active  power,  what  are 
we  to  think  of  all  the  qualities  that  are  in  all  the  ab- 
solutely active  and  passive  power  of  the  universe? 

This  dialogue  shows,  in  the  second  place,  that  a  cor- 


CAUSES  AND  PRINCIPLES  113 

porcai  thing  canot  be  terminated  by  an  incorporeal 
thing,  but  either  by  a  vacuum  or  by  a  plenum  ;  and  that 
there  is  most  certainly  beyond  our  world  a  space  that 
is  no  void,  but  mere  matter,  which  is  what  is  called 
the  passive  Power  or  Expanse,  and  wherein  the  neither 
envious  nor  idle  Divine  Power  must  needs  exert  itself 
by  action.  Here  is  exposed  the  vanity  of  Aristotle's 
argument,  drawn  from  the  incompassibility  of  dimen- 
sions. 

In  the  third  place  is  shown  the  difference  between 
these  expressions  ilic  World  and  the  Universe;  for  who- 
ever says  the  Universe  is  one  and  infinite,  and  that  there 
are  many  Worlds,  must  necessarily  distinguish  between 
these  two   words. 

In  the  fourth  place  are  alleged  the  contrary  reasons, 
whereby  the  Universe  has  been  judged  to  be  finite; 
where  Elpinus  repeats  all  the  arguments  of  Aristotle, 
and  Philotheus  particularly  examines  them.  Of  these, 
some  are  taken  from  the  nature  of  simple  bodies;  and 
the  vanity  of  six  of  Aristotle's  arguments  is  demonstra- 
ted, which  are  urged  by  him  from  the  definition  of  such 
motions  as  cannot  be  in  infinity,  and  from  such  other 
propositions  as  are  without  all  foundation  and  are  but 
mere  begging  of  the  question.  This  may  be  clearly 
seen  by  our  arguments,  which  more  naturally  show  the 
reason  of  the  differences  and  determinations  of  motion, 
and  (as  far  as  the  place  and  occasion  permit)  explain  the 
more  real  knowledge  of  the  impulse  of  Gravity  and  Lev- 
ity; for  there  we  show  that  infinite  body  can  be  neither 
heavy  nor  light,  and  how  it  is  that  infinite  body  receives 
such   differences,   and  also   in  what  cases  it  does  not. 


114  GIORDANO  BRUNO 

Then  again  the  vanity  of  Aristotle's  reasonings  is  made 
apparent,  who,  when  he  argues  against  them  who  hold 
the  Universe  to  be  infinite,  supposes  a  center  and  a  cir- 
cumference (the  very  thing  denied  him),  and,  whether 
the  world  be  finite  or  infinite,  will  needs  have  the  Earth 
to  be  in  the  midst  of  it.  In  fine,  there's  no  reason  great 
or  small  produced  by  this  philosopher  to  destroy  the 
infinity  of  the  World,  either  in  his  first  book,  dc  Coclo  ct 
Mundo,  or  in  his  third  book,  dc  Physica  aiiscultationc ,  but 
is  discussed  much  more  than  sufficiently. 

The  Argument  of  the  Third  Dialogue 

In  the  Third  Dialogue  first  is  denied  that  pitiful  fancy 
of  the  figure  of  the  Spheres,  and  the  number  or  diversi- 
ty of  the  Heavens  ;  as  it  is  on  the  contrary  affirmed  that 
the  Heaven  is  but  one,  being  the  general  space  that  con- 
tains infinite  Worlds.  Yet  we  deny  not  but  there  may 
be  an  infinite  number  of  Heavens,  taking  this  word  in 
another  signification  ;  for  as  this  Earth  has  its  heaven, 
which  is  that  region  of  space  wherein  it  moves  and  per- 
forms its  course,  so  has  every  one  of  the  other  innumer- 
able Worlds.  Then  is  shown  what  occasioned  the  imagi- 
nation of  so  many  and  so  great  movable  orbs,  figurated 
so  as  to  have  two  external  surfaces  and  one  internal  con- 
cavity; with  such  other  receipts  and  pills  as  cause  nau- 
seousness  and  stupor,  as  well  in  those  that  prescribe  as 
in  those  that  swallow  them. 

Secondly,  is  shown  that  the  general  motion  and  that 
of  the  eccentrical  orbs,  and  as  many  other  motions  as 
are  or  can  be  ascribed  to  the  said  firmament,  are  all 
chimerical;  and  that  they  are  nothing  else  but  the  mo- 


CAUSES  AND  PRINCIPLES  115 

tion  of  the  Earth  upon  its  own  center  through  the 
ecliptic,  together  with  four  particular  differences  or  de- 
terminations of  this  same  motion.  Whence  it  follows 
that  the  proper  motion  of  every  star  is  taken  from  the 
difference  which  can  be  subjectively  verified  in  the  same 
as  it  moves  of  itself  in  the  spacious  field  of  Ether,  This 
consideration  will  convince  us  that  all  the  arguments,  for 
an  infinite  movable  and  an  infinite  motion  are  vain  and 
are  founded  purely  on  their  ignorance  of  the  motion  of 
our  globe. 

Thirdly,  it  is  made  plain  that  every  star  has  its  mo- 
tion like  this  of  our  earth,  and  like  those  others  whose 
vicinity  makes  us  sensibly  distinguish  the  particular  dif- 
ferences of  their  local  motions;  but  yet  that  the  Suns, 
which  are  bodies  wherein  fire  is  predominant,  move 
otherwise  (that  is,  upon  their  own  centers)  than  the 
Earths,  wherein  water  is  predominant;  and  thence  also 
is  manifested  whence  the  Light  proceeds  that  is  diffused 
by  the  stars,  of  which  som.e  have  this  light  in*  them- 
selves, and  some  have  it  only  by  reflection  from  others. 

Fourthly,  is  shown  how  bodies  the'  most  distant  from 
the  Sun  can  participate  of  heat  equally  with  those  that 
are  nearest  it.  Then  is  confuted  the  opinion  attributed 
to  Epicurus,  that  one  Sun  w'as  sufficient  for  the  whole 
universe;  and  the  true  difference»  is  stated  between 
those  stars  that  twinkle  and  those  that  do  not. 

Fifthly,  is  examined  the  opinion  of  Cusanus  about  the 
matter  and  habitableness  of  the  Worlds,  and  about  the 
reason  of  light. 

Sixthly,  how  that,  though  some  of  those  bodies  have 
light  and  heat  of  themselves,  yet  for  all  this  the  sun  does 


116  GIORDANO  BRUNO 

not  shine  to  the  sun,  as  neither  the  earth  nor  the  sea 
to  themselves;  but  Hght  always  proceeds  from  the  op- 
posite star,  as  we  sensibly  see  the  brightness  of  the 
whole  sea  from  some  eminence  or  mountain,  but  being 
in  this  same  sea  or  in  a  field,  we  see  no  more  of  it  bright 
than  as  far  as  the  light  of  the  opposite  sun  or  moon  re- 
flects upon  it  within  some  very  small  dimension. 

Seventhly  is  exposed  the  foolery  of  the  Peripatetic 
quinta  essentia,  or  the  fifth  element,  not  changeable  as 
the  other  four;  and  then  it  is  demonstrated  that  all  sen- 
sible bodies  whatsoever  are  of  no  other  nature  than 
those  of  this  earth,  nor  consisting  of  any  other  principles 
or  elements,  and  that  they  m.ove  no  otherwise  either  in 
a  straight  line  or  in  a  circle.  All  the  arguments  through- 
out are  accommodated  to  the  meanest  capacity,  as  Fra- 
castorius,  a  learned  man,  accommodates  himself  to  the 
understanding  of  Burchius,  next  to  an  idiot.  And  it 
is  made  evident  beyond  contradiction  that  no  change 
or  accident  happens  here  but  the  same  may  be  supposed 
to  happen  there,  as  nothing  is  seen  from  hence  there  but 
(if  we  consider  aright)  the  same  may  be  seen  from 
thence  here;  and  consequently  that  the  vulgarly  ad- 
mired order  and  scale  of  nature  is  only  a  pleasing  dream, 
or  rather  the  jargon  of  old  doting  women. 

Eighthly,  that  however  true  may  be  the  distinction  of 
elem.ents,  yet  the  vulgar  order  of  elements  is  neither 
sensible  nor  inteliigble.  And,  even  according  to  Aris- 
totle himself,  the  four  elements  are  equally  parts  or 
members  of  this  Globe,  if  we  do  not  rather  make  water 
predominant;  whence  the  stars  are  properly  called  some- 
times water  and  sometimes  fire,  as  well  by  the  true  na- 


CAUSES  AND  PRINCIPLES  117 

turai  philosophers  as  by  prophets,  divines  and  poets,  who 
in  this  point  did  neither  vend  fables  nor  metaphors,  but 
left  those  other  clumsy  sophisters  to  fabulize  and  grow 
children  at  their  pleasure.  Thus  the  Worlds  are  under- 
stood to  be  those  heterogeneous  bodies,  those  animals, 
those  huge  globes,  wherein  the  earth  is  no  more  heavy 
than  the  other  elements,  and  whereof  all  the  parts  and 
particles  are  moved  and  change  place  and  disposition 
no  otherwise  than  as  the  blood,  humors,  spirits  and  in- 
sensible particles  which  perpetually  flow  in  and  out  in 
us  and  in  the  other  lesser  animals.  On  this  occasion 
a  comparison  is  made  of  the  elements,  whereby  it  is 
found  that  the  Earth,  by  its  impulse  toward  the  center 
of  its  own  bulk,  is  not  heavier  than  any  other  simple 
body  that  is  an  ingredient  in  the  composition  of  the 
same;  and  that  the  Earth  of  itself  is  neither  heavy  nor 
light,  neither  ascends  nor  descends,  but  that  it  is  water 
that  causes  the  cohesion,  density,  spissitude  and  gravity 
thereof. 

Ninthly,  the  famous  order  of  the  elements  being  thus 
exploded,  next  comes  the  true  account  of  those  sensible 
compounded  bodies  which  are,  as  so  many  animals  or 
worlds,  in  this  spacious  field  called  air,  or  sky,  or  com- 
monly vacuum;  wherein,  I  say,  are  all  those  worlds 
which  contain  certain  animals  and  inhabitants  no  less 
than  ours,  since  they  are  not  inferior  in  aptitude  or  ca- 
pacity or  in  many  other  requisite  qualities. 

Tenthly,  after  showing  the  manner  of  disputation 
used  by  those  who  are  pertinaciously  addicted  to  their 
opinions,  and  by  those  other  ignorant  sots  of  a  depraved 
disposition,  it  is  further  declared  how  passionately  they 


118  GIORDANO  BRUNO 

are  for  the  most  part  wont  to  conclude  their  disputes; 
though  there  be  others  so  circumspect  that,  without 
being  in  the  least  put  out  of  countenance,  they  strive  to 
make  the  auditors  believe,  by  a  leer,  a  smile,  shrug,  or 
a  certain  modest  malignity,  what  they  are  never  able  to 
prove  by  reasons.  With  these  petty  artifices  of  cour- 
teous contempt,  they  would  not  only  cover  their  own 
ignorance,  though  it  is  open  to  all  the  world  besides,  but 
further  load  their  adversaries  with  it;  for  they  come  not 
to  dispute  in  order  to  find  or  indeed  to  seek  the  truth, 
but  for  obtaining  the  victory,  and  to  appear  more 
learned  or  to  be  counted  more  strenuous  champions  of 
the  contrary  side.  Whence  these  and  the  like  ought  to 
be  avoided  by  every  man  that  has  not  put  on  a  good 
cuirass  of  patience. 

The  Argument  of  the  Fourth  Dialogue 

In  the  following  Dialogue,  first,  a  short  repetition  is 
made  of  what  has  been  said  elsewhere,  viz.  :  how  the 
worlds  are  in  number  infinite,  and  how  each  of  them 
is  moved  and  is  formed.  Secondly,  the  like  transient 
repetition  is  made  of  the  answers  that  in  the  Second 
Dialogue  were  given  to  the  arguments  against  the  in- 
finite extension  or  greatness  of  the  universe.  Now,  since 
the  immense  effect  of  immense  activity  and  power  has 
been  proved  by  many  reasons  in  the  First  Dialogue,  and 
that  the  infinite  multitude  of  worlds  is  proved  in  the 
Third  Dialogue,  we  do,  in  this  Fourth,  resolve  the  nu- 
merous difficulties  of  Aristotle  against  the  same;  though 
this  expression  World  is  taken  in  a  different  sense  by 
Aristotle  from  what  it  is  by  Democritus,  Epicurus  and 


CAUSES  AND  PRINCIPLES  119 

others.  He  therefore,  from  natural  and  forced  motion, 
and  from  the  reasons  he  has  invented  for  both  these, 
would  infer  that  one  earth  must  necessarily  move  to- 
ward another,  supposing  there  be  more  than  one.  In 
the  resolution  hereof — 

First,  are  laid  foundations  of  no  small  importance,  to 
discover  the  true  principles  of  natural  philosophy. 

Secondly,  it  is  shown  that  though  the  surface  of  one 
earth  had  been  contiguous  to  that  of  another,  yet  the 
parts  of  the  one  would  never  the  more  for  that  move 
toward  the  other;  understanding  this  of  the  heterogen- 
eous or  compounded  parts,  but  not  of  the  atoms  and 
simple  corpuscles;  and  on  this  occasion  a  larger  expli- 
cation is  given  of  the  nature  of  gravity  and  levity. 

Thirdly,  is  examined  for  what  reason  these  great 
bodies  are  disposed  by  nature  at  such  a  distance,  and 
not  rather  nearer  one  to  the  other,  that  a  passage  might 
be  had  from  the  one  to  the  other.  And  here  a  reason  is 
given  unto  him  who  has  a  deep  insight  into  things,  that 
worlds  should  not  be  placed  as  it  were  in  the  circumfer- 
ence of  the  ether,  or  near  to  such  a  void  space  as  is  des- 
titute of  all  power,  virtue,  or  operation;  since  thus  on 
one  side  they  would  be  wholly  and  absolutely  deprived 
of  the  means  to  have  either  life  or  light. 

Fourthly,  how  local  distance  changes  the  nature  of  a 
body,  or  when  it  does  not  change  it;  and  how  it  is  that 
placing  a  stone  equidistant  from  two  earths,  it  would 
remain  still  there;  or  from  what  cause  it  should  have  a 
determination  to  move  rather  toward  one  of  these  globes 
than  toward  the  other. 

Fifthly,  it  is  proved  how  much  Aristotle  is  deceived 


120  GIORDANO  BRUNO 

when  in  bodies,  though  ever  so  distant  from  anoth- 
er, he  places  an  impulse  or  gravity  or  levity  from  the 
one  toward  the  other;  and  the  cause  is  assigned  whence 
proceeds  what  is  called  the  desire  of  preserving  their 
present  being,  how  ignoble  soever,  in  all  things;  this 
desire  being  the  cause  of  what  is  likewise  called  appe- 
tite and  aversion. 

Sixthly,  it  is  demonstrated  that  direct  motion,  or  mo- 
tion in  a  straight  line,  is  neither  agreeable  nor  natural 
to  the  Earth  or  to  the  other  principal  bodies,  but  only 
to  the  inconstituent  parts  or  particles,  which,  if  not  too 
widely  separated,  tend  to  such  bodies  from  all  places 
the  nearest  way. 

Seventhly,  an  argument  is  drawn  from  comets  to 
prove  that  it  is  not  true  that  a  heavy  body,  however 
remote,  has  an  impulse  or  motion  toward  its  principal 
or  whole;  this  fancy  not  being  built  on  true  physical 
principles,  but  on  the  gratuitous  suppositions  of  the 
philosophy  of  Aristotle,  who  forms  and  compounds  the 
comets  of  those  parts  that  we  call  the  vapors  and  exhala- 
tions of  the  Earth. 

Eighthly,  on  occasion  of  another  argument — showing 
the  comets  to  be  real  planets  that  have  nothing  to  do 
with  this  Earth — it  is  proved  that  simple  bodies,  which 
are  of  the  same  species  in  the  other  innumerable  worlds, 
are  likewise  moved  everywhere  after  the  same  manner; 
and  how  a  numeral  makes  a  local  diversity,  how  every 
part  has  its  own  center  and  has  a  relation  to  the  com- 
mon center  of  its  whole,  which  sort  of  center  is  not, 
however,  to  be  looked  for  in  the  universe. 

Ninthly,  it  is  proved  that  neither  bodies  nor  their  parts 


CAUSES  AND  PRINCIPLES  121 

are  determined  to  above  or  below,  otherwise  than  as  the 
place  of  their  preservation  is  here  or  there. 

Tenthly,  how  motion  is  infinite,  and  what  movable 
it  is  that  has  an  infinite  tendency,  and  to  innumerable 
compositions;  yet  it  is  proved  that  for  all  this  there  fol- 
lows not  a  gravity  or  levity  with  infinite  velocity;  that 
the  motion  of  the  proximate  parts,  so  far  as  they  keep 
their  being,  cannot  be  infinite;  and  that  an  impulse  of 
the  parts  toward  their  continent  or  whole  can  never 
exist  but  within  the  region  of  the  same,  or,  as  we  say, 
in  the  sphere  of  its  activity. 

The  Argument  of  the  Fifth  Dialogue 

In  the  beginning  of  the  Fifth  Dialogue  is  introduced 
a  person  endowed  with  a  more  happy  genius,  who, 
though  bred  up  the  contrary  way,  yet  for  being  able 
to  judge  of  what  he  heard  and  saw,  can  perceive  the 
difference  between  the  one  and  the  other  philosophy, 
and  consequently  is  easily  convinced  and  as  easily  cor- 
rects himself.  Mention  is  made  of  them  to  whom  Aris- 
totle appears  to  be  a  miracle  of  nature;  whereas  they 
that  have  the  poorest  understanding  and  comprehend 
him  the  least  are  they  that  magnify  him  most.  Next 
are  given  reasons  why  we  ought  to  have  pity  upon  such, 
and  to  avoid  losing  time  by  disputing  with  them. 

Here  Albertinus,  the  new  interlocutor,  brings  eleven 
objections,  in  which  consists  all  the  force  of  the  doctrine 
contrary  to  the  plurality  and  multitude  of  worlds. 

The  first  objection  is  taken  from  hence,  that  without 
the  world  there  is  neither  place,  nor  time,  nor  vacuum, 
nor  body  simple,  nor  compound. 


122  GIORDANO  BRUNO 

The  second  objection  is  from  the  oneness  of  the 
mover. 

The  third,  from  the  places  of  movable  bodies. 

The  fourth,  from  the  difference  of  the  horizons  from 
the  center. 

The  fifth,  from  the  contiguity  of  more  orbicular 
worlds. 

The  sixth,  from  the  triangular  spaces'  they  must  cause 
by  their  contact. 

The  seventh,  from  an  actual  infinite  that  is  not  in 
being,  and  from  a  determinate  number  not  more  rea- 
sonable than  the  other;  from  which  objections  we  can 
equally,  if  not  with  more  advantage,  infer  that  number 
therefore  is  not   determinate,   but  infinite. 

The  eighth  objection  is  taken  from  the  terminateness 
or  finitude  of  natural  things,  and  from  their  passive 
power,  which  corresponds  not  to  the  divine  efficacy  and 
active  power.  But  here  it  is  to  be  considered  how 
mighty  inconveniently  the  first  and  most  high  Being 
is  compared  to  a  fiddler  that  has  skill  to  play,  but  can- 
not, for  want  of  a  fiddle;  so  that  he  is  one  that  can 
do  but  does  not,  because  that  thing  which  he  can  make 
cannot  be  made  by  him.  This  implies  a  more  than 
manifest  contradiction,  which  cannot  but  be  seen,  ex- 
cept only  by  those  who  see  nothing. 

The  ninth  objection  is  taken  from  moral  goodness, 
which  consists  in  society. 

The  tenth  is,  that  the  contiguity  of  one  world  to 
another  would  mutually  hinder  their  motions. 

The  eleventh  and  last  objection  is,  that  if  this  world 
be  complete  and   perfect,   there   is   no  reason   it  should 


CAUSES  AND  PRINCIPLES  123 

join  itself  or  be  joined  to  any  one  or  more  such  worlds. 

These  are  the  doubts,  difficulties  and  motives  about 
the  solution  whereof  I  have  said  enough  in  the  following 
dialogues  to  expose  the  intimate  and  radicated  errors 
of  the  common  philosophy,  and  to  show  the  weight  and 
worth  of  our  own.  Here  you  will  meet  with  the  rea- 
sons why  we  should  not  fear  that  any  part  of  the  uni- 
verse should  fall  or  fly  off,  that  the  least  particle  should 
be  lost  in  empty  space  or  be  truly  annihilated.  Here 
you  will  perceive  the  reason  of  that  vicissitude  which 
may  be  observed  in  the  constant  change  of  all  things, 
whereby  it  happens  that  there  is  nothing  so  ill  but  may 
befall  us  or  be  prevented,  nor  anything  so  good  but  may 
be  lost  or  obtained  by  us;  since  in  this  infinite  field  the 
parts  and  modes  do  perpetually  vary,  though  the  sub- 
stance and  the  whole  do  eternally  persevere  the  same. 

From  this  contemplation  (if  we  do  but  rightly  con- 
sider) it  will  follow  that  we  ought  never  to  be  dispirited 
by  any  strange  accidents  through  excess  of  fear  or  pain, 
nor  ever  be  elated  by  any  prosperous  event  through  ex- 
cess of  hope  or  pleasure;  whence  we  have  the  way  to 
true  morality,  and,  following  it,  we  would  become  the 
magnanimous  despisers  of  what  men  of  childish  thoughts 
do  fondly  esteem.,  and  the  wise  judges  of  the  history 
of  nature  that  is  written  in  our  minds,  and  the  strict 
executors  of  those  divine  laws  that  are  engraven  in  the 
center  of  our  hearts.  We  would  know  that  it  is  no 
harder  thing  to  fly  hence  up  to  heaven  than  to  fly  from 
heaven  back  again  to  the  Earth,  that  ascending  thither 
and  descending  hither  are  all  one  ;  that  we  are  no  more 
circumferential  to  the  other  globes  than  they  are  to  us. 


124  GIORDANO  BRUNO 

nor  they  more  central  to  us  than  we  are  to  them,  and 
that  none  of  them  is  more  above  the  stars  than  we,  as 
they  no  less  than  we  are  covered  over  or  comprehended 
by  the  sky.  Behold  us,  therefore,  free  from  envying 
them!  Behold  us  delivered  from  the  vain  anxiety  and 
foolish  care  of  desiring  to  enjoy  that  good  afar  off  v/hich 
in  as  great  a  degree  we  may  possess  so  near  at  hand, 
and  even  at  home!  Behold  us  freed  from  the  terror 
that  they  should  fall  upon  us,  any  more  than  we  should 
hope  that  we  might  fall  upon  them;  since  every  one 
of  those  globes  is  sustained  by  infinite  ether,  in  which 
this  our  animal  freely  runs  and  keeps  to  his  prescribed 
course,  as  the  rest  of  the  planets  do  to  theirs. 

Did  we  but  consider  and  comprehend  all  this,  oh!  to 
what  much  further  considerations  and  comprehensions 
should  we  be  carried,  as  we  might  be  sure  to  obtain  by 
virtue  of  this  science  that  happiness  which  in  other 
sciences  is  sought  after  in  vain.  This  is  that  philosophy 
which  opens  the  senses,  which  satisfies  the  mind,  which 
enlarges  the  understanding,  and  which  leads  man  to  the 
only  true  beatitude  whereof  he  is  capable  according  to 
his  natural  state  and  constitution;  for  it  frees  him  from 
the  solicitous  pursuit  of  pleasure  and  from  the  anxious 
apprehensions  of  pain,  making  him  enjoy  the  good 
things  of  the  present  hour,  and  not  to  fear  more  than 
he  hopes  from  the  future;  since  that  same  Providence, 
or  fate,  or  fortune,  which  causes  the  vicissitudes  of  our 
particular  being  will  not  let  us  know  more  of  the  one 
than  we  are  ignorant  of  the  other.  At  first  sight,  indeed, 
we  are  apt  to  be  dubious  and  perplexed;  but  when  we 
more  profoundly  consider  the  essence  and  accidents  of 


CAUSES  AND  PRINCIPLES  125 

that  matter  into  v/hich  we  are  mutable,  we  shall  find 
that  there  is  no  death  attending  ours  or  the  substance 
of  any  other  thing;  since  nothing  is  substantially  di- 
minished, but  only  everything  changing  form  by  its 
perpetual  motion  in  this  infinite  space.  And  seeing  that 
everything  is  subject  to  a  good  and  most  perfect  effi- 
cient cause,  we  ought  neither  to  believe  nor  hope  other- 
wise than  that,  as  everything  proceeds  from  what  is 
good,  so  the  whole  must  needs  be  good,  in  a  good  state, 
and  to  a  good  purpose;  the  contrary  of  which  appears 
only  to  them  who  consider  no  more  than  is  just  before 
them,  as  the  beauty  of  an  edifice  is  not  manifest  to  one 
that  has  seen  only  some  small  portion  of  it — as  a  stone, 
the  plastering,  or  part  of  a  wall — but  is  most  charming 
to  him  that  saw  the  whole  and  had  leisure  to  observe 
the  symmetry  of  the  parts. 

We  fear  not,  therefore,  that  what  is  accumulated  in 
this  world  should,  by  the  malice  of  some  wandering 
spirit,  or  by  the  wrath  of  some  evil  genius,  be  shaken 
and  scattered  as  it  were  into  smoke  and  dust  out  of  this 
cupola  of  the  sky  and  beyond  the  starry  mantle  of  the 
firmament;  nor  that  the  nature  of  things  can  otherwise 
come  to  be  annihilated  in  substance,  any  more  than  as 
it  seems  to  our  eyes  that  the  air  contained  in  the  con- 
cavity of  a  bubble  is  become  nothing  when  that  bubble 
is  burst;  because  we  know  that  in  the  world  one  thing 
ever  succeeds  another,  there  being  no  utmost  bottom, 
whence,  as  by  the  hand  of  an  artificer,  things  are  irrepa- 
rably struck  into  nothing.  There  are  no  ends,  limits, 
margins  or  walls  that  keep  back  or  subtract  any  parcel 
of  the  infinite  abundance  of  things.      Thence  it  is  that 


126  GIORDANO  BRUNO 

the  earth  and  the  sea  are  ever  equally  fertile,  and  thence 
the  perpetuai  brightness  of  the  sun;  eternal  fuel  cir- 
culating to  those  devouring  fires  ;  and  a  supply  of  waters 
being  eternally  furnished  to  the  evaporated  seas  from 
the  infinite  and  ever  renewing  magazine  of  matter;  so 
that  Democritus  and  Epicurus,  who  asserted  the  infin- 
ity of  things  with  their  perpetual  variableness  and  res- 
toration, were  so  far  more  in  the  right  than  he  who 
attempted  to  account  for  the  eternally  same  appearance 
of  the  universe  by  m.aking  homogeneous  particles  of  mat- 
ter ever  and  numerically  to  succeed  one  another. 

Look  at  it  now,  gentlemen  astrologers,  with  your 
humble  servants  the  natural  philosophers,  and  see  to 
what  use  you  can  put  your  circles  that  are  described  by 
the  imaginary  nine  movable  spheres  in  which  you  so 
imprison  your  brains  that  you  seem  to  me  like  so  many 
parrots  in  their  cages,  hopping  and  dancing  from  one 
perch  to  another,  yet  always  turning  and  winding  with- 
in the  same  wires.  But  be  it  known  unto  you  that  so 
great  an  Emperor  has  not  so  narrow  a  palace,  so  miser- 
able a  throne,  so  low  a  tribunal,  so  scanty  a  court,  so 
little  and  weak  a  representative,  as  that  a  fancy  can 
bring  it  forth,  a  dream  overlay  it,  madness  repair  it,  a 
chimera  shatter  it,  a  disaster  lessen  it,  another  accident 
increase  it,  and  a  thought  make  it  perfect  again,  being 
brought  together  by  a  blast  and  made  solid  by  a  shake  ; 
it  is,  on  the  contrary,  an  immense  portraiture,  an  ad- 
mirable image,  an  exalted  figure,  a  most  high  vestige, 
an  infinite  representation  of  an  infinite  original,  and  a 
spectacle  befitting  the  eminence  of  Him  that  can  neither 
be   imagined  nor  conceived   nor   comprehended. 


CAUSES  AND   PRINCIPLES  127 

Thus  the  excellence  of  God  is  magnified,  and  the 
grandeur  of  His  empire  made  manifest  ;  He  is  not  glori- 
ous in  one  Sun,  but  in  numberless  suns,  not  in  one  Earth 
or  in  one  world,  but  in  ten  hundred  thousand,  in  infinite 
globes;  so  that  this  faculty  of  the  intellect  is  not  vain 
or  arbitrary,  that  ever  will  or  can  add  space  to  space, 
quantity  to  quantity,  unity  to  unity,  number  to  num- 
ber. By  this  science  we  are  loosed  from  the  chains 
of  a  most  narrow  dungeon,  and  set  at  liberty  to  rove  in 
a  most  august  empire;  we  are  removed  from  conceited 
boundaries  and  poverty  to  the  innumerable  riches  of  an 
infinite  space,  of  so  worthy  a  field,  and  of  such  beautiful 
worlds.  This  science,  in  a  word,  does  not  make  a  hori- 
zontal circle  feigned  by  the  eye  on  earth  and  imagined 
by  fancy  in  the  spacious  sky. 

There  are  other  worthy  and  honorable  fruits  that  may 
be  gathered  from  these  trees,  other  precious  and  de- 
sirable crops  that  may  be  reaped  from  those  seeds  I 
have  sown,  which  we  shall  not  at  this  time  specify,  lest 
we  unfortunately  solicit  the  blind  envy  of  our  adver- 
saries; but  we  leave  them  to  be  collected  by  the  discre- 
tion of  those  who  can  judge  and  comprehend,  and  who 
of  themselves  will  be  easily  capable  to  raise  on  the 
foundations  we  have  laid  the  entire  structure  of  our 
philosophy.  The  particular  members  of  it  (if  so  it 
pleases  those  powers  that  govern  us  and  move  us,  and 
if  the  work  we  have  begun  comes  not  to  be  interrupted) 
we  shall  bring  to  the  desired  perfection;  that  what  is 
sown  in  the  Dialogues  of  the  Cause,  Principle,  and  One, 
and  sprung  up  in  these  of  the  infinite  universe  and  num- 
berless  worlds,   may  branch   out,    increase,   mature,   be 


128  GIORDANO  BRUNO 

happily  reaped,  and  as  much  as  possible  give  content  in 
other  dialogues;  while  with  the  best  corn  that  the  soil 
we  cultivate  can  produce  (after  winnowing  it  from 
chaff)  we  fill  the  granaries  of  studious  wits. 

In  the  mean  time  (though  I  be  certain  he  needs  no  reo 
ommendation  to  you),  I  shall  not  be  wanting  to  do  my 
part  by  effectually  recommending  to  your  Lordship  one 
whom  you  are  not  to  entertain  among  your  domestics 
as  having  need  of  him,  but  as  a  person  having  need  of 
you  for  so  many  and  so  great  purposes  as  you  here  see. 
Consider  that  for  having  such  numbers  at  hand  boimd 
to  serve  you,  you  are  thereby  nothing  different  from 
farmers,  bankers,  or  merchants;  but  that  for  having  a 
man  deserving  to  be  by  you  encouraged,  protected,  and 
assisted,  you  are  in  reality  (what  you  have  always 
shown  yourself  to  be)  like  unto  magnanimous  princes, 
heroes,  and  gods,  who  have  ordained  such  as  you  for 
the  defense  of  their  friends.  I  put  you  in  mind  of  what 
I  know  is  superfluous  to  do,  which  is,  that  you  can 
neither  be  so  much  esteemed  by  the  v/orld,  nor  so  ac- 
ceptable to  God,  for  being  beloved  and  favored  by  the 
greatest  monarch  on  earth,  as  for  loving,  cherishing,  and 
maintaining  such  as  these  ;  for  there  is  nothing  that  your 
superiors  in  fortune  can  do  for  you,  but  you  may  do 
more  for  them  by  superior  virtue,  which  will  last  longer 
than  the  remembrance  of  their  favors  in  your  pictures 
and  tapestries.  But  you  can  do  that  for  others  which 
may  be  written  in  the  Book  of  Eternity,  whether  it  be 
the  volum.e  that  is  seen  on  Earth,  or  that  other  which 
is  believed  to  be  in  heaven.      Farewell! 


POEMS 

BY 
FRANCESCO  REDI 


no 


INTRODUCTION 

fHYSICIAN,  naturalist,  scholar,  poet — so  versa- 
tile was  Francesco  Redi  that  in  all  these  he 
had  a  high  reputation  among  the  men  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  He  was  bom  in  Arezzo 
in  1626,  studied  medicine,  and  became  physician  to  the 
Grand  Dukes  of  Florence.  He  was  ahead  of  his  times 
in  scientific  inquiry,  and  was  the  first  to  promulgate 
the  theory  that  every  living  organism  must  have  sprung 
from  a  living  germ,  thus  repudiating  the  doctrine  of 
abiogenesis,  and  fortifying  his  position  with  careful  ob- 
servation and  conclusive  experiments.  Some  of  his 
scientific  works  were  translated  into  Latin  (as  that  was 
the  one  language  known  to  scholars  in  all  countries), 
and  passed  through  many  editions.  He  wrote  also  bi- 
ographies of  Dante  and  Petrarch,  and  many  poems.  His 
muse  was  devoted  to  love  and  wine,  and  his  Bacchana- 
lian lyrics  first  brought  him  into  notice  as  a  poet.  These 
were  greatly  admired  for  their  light  touch  and  rapid 
movement.  He  represents  Bacchus  as  singing  the 
praises  of  the  wines  of  Tuscany  with  a  discriminating 
enthusiasm.  Again  he  tunes  his  harp  to  love,  and  pro- 
duces admirable  sonnets  that  treat  the  universal  passion 
in  various  aspects.  The  keynote  of  this  side  of  his 
character  may  be  found  in  his  lines: 

131 


132  INTRODUCTION 

If  I  am  aught,  it  is  Love's  miracle. 

He  to  rough  mass  gave  shape  with  forming  file; 

He,  as  youth  bloomed  in  April's  sunny  smile, 
Came  through  the  eyes  within  the  heart  to  dwell, 
My  lord  and  master  he,  who  bade  expel 

All  sordid  thought  and  apprehension  vile. 

Sweetness  bestowed  on  rude,  unmellowed  style, 
And  melody  that  shall  be  memorable. 

Redi  died  in  Pisa  in  1698.     His  complete  works  were 
published  in  Milan,  in  nine  volumes,  in  1809. 


THE  GENTLE  SOUL 

Ye  gentle  souls!  ye  love-devoted  fair! 

Who,  passing  by,  to  Pity's  voice  incline, 
O  stay  awhile  and  hear  me!  then  declare 

If  there  was  ever  grief  that  equals  mine. 

There  was  a  woman  to  whose  sacred  breast 

Faith  had  retired,  where  Honor  fixed  his  throne; 

Pride,   though  upheld  by  Virtue,  she   repressed — 
Ye  gentle  souls,  that  woman  was  my  own! 

Beauty  was  more  than  beauty  in  her  face  ; 

Grace  was  in  all  she  did,  in  all  she  said — 
In  sorrow  and  in  pleasure  there  was  grace: 

Ye  gentle  souls,  that  gentle  soul  is  fled! 

— Translated  by  Walter  Savage  Landor. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  EARTHLY  LOVE 

O  ye  that  follow  Virtue,  go  not  there! 

Those  meadows  are  the  flowery  ways  of  Love, 
And  he  who  there  as  Lord  and  King  doth  move 
Is  ever  on  the  watch  to  trap  and  snare 
Th'  incautious  hearts  of  all  the  young  and  fair; 
And  if  those  sunny,  perilous  ways  ye  prove, 
Your  soul  will  flutter  like  a  caged  dove. 
Oh,  pause,  and  taste  not  that  perfumed  air  ! 
Those  shy,  white-breasted  girls  who  smile  and  stand 
With  flower-bound  hair,  and  singing,  hand  in  hand, 

133 


134  FRANCESCO  REDI 

Among  the  roses  will  lay  wait  for  you, 
And  clip  your  wings,  and  never  let  you  through. 
But  shut  your  soul  up  in  a  thirsty  land, 

And  Love  will  come  with  them  and  mock  you  too  ! 

— Translated  by  Edimmd  Cosse. 


LOVE,  THE  MINSTREL 

Love  is  the  minstrel,  for  in  God's  own  sight, 
The  master  of  all  melody,  he  stands. 
And  holds  a  golden  rebeck  in  his  hands. 

And  leads  the  chorus  of  the  saints  in  light; 

But  ever  and  anon  those  chambers  bright 
Detain  him  not,  for  down  to  these  low  lands 
He  flies,  and  spreads  his  musical  commands. 

And  teaches  men  some  fresh  divine  delight. 

For  with  his  bow  he  strikes  a  single  chord 
Across  a  soul,  and  wakes  in  it  desire 
To  grow  more  pure  and  lovely  and  aspire 

To  that  ethereal  country  where,  outpoured 

From  myriad  stars  that  stand  before  the  Lord, 
Love's  harmonies  are  like  a  flame  of  fire. 

— Translated  by  Edììiiind  Cosse. 


THREE    SONNETS 

BY 
VINCENZO  FILICAJA 


135 


INTRODUCTION 

^%L^INCENZO  FILICAJA  v/as  born  in  Florence  in 

Iti  ^^4^-  -^^  ^"^^^  ^^®  ^^'^  ^'^  ^  Senator,  and  was 
i[jl  educated  with  a  view  to  a  political  career;  but 
instead  he  followed  his  natural  bent  and  became 
a  poet.  He  had  studied  Greek  and  Latin,  philosophy,  the- 
ology and  jurisprudence,  and  he  gave  special  attention  to 
antiquities.  Like  many  other  poets — perhaps  most — he 
began  his  literary  career  with  amatory  verses.  But  the 
lady  he  loved  died  early,  and  he  then  resolved  to  confine 
his  work  to  historical  and  religious  subjects.  He  wrote 
both  in  Italian  and  in  Latin.  When  he  married,  as  hia 
means  were  limited,  he  retired  to  the  country  and  de- 
voted himself  to  his  books  and  his  family.  He  wrote 
odes  to  the  Emperor  Leopold,  the  Duke  of  Lorraine, 
John  Sobieski,  and  Queen  Christina  of  Sweden,  which 
gave  him  a  wide  reputation,  though  he  had  little  thought 
of  pubHshing.  The  Queen  bore  the  expense  of  educa- 
ting his  sons,  and  the  Grand  Duke  of  Tuscany  made  him 
a  Senator  and  Governor  of  Volterra,  and  subsequently 
of  Pisa.  When  he  died,  in  1707,  he  had  begun  the  col- 
lection of  his  works,  and  the  task  was  completed  by  his 
son,  who  published  them  in  a  single  quarto  volume  at 
Florence  in  1707.  A  two-volume  edition  was  issued  in 
Venice  in  1762.  The  sonnet  on  Italy,  given  here,  has 
the  reputation  of  being  one  of  the  finest  in  the  language. 

137 


138  INTRODUCTION 

Byron  threw  an  almost  literal  translation  of  this  sonnet 
into  "Childe  Harold,"  in  the  lines  beginning: 

Italia,  O  Italia,  thou  who  hast 
The  fatal  gift   of  beauty. — IV,  42. 

Maucaulay  expressed  the  opinion  that  Filicaja  was 
the  greatest  lyric  poet  of  modern  times.  But  that  was 
before  Tennyson's  star  shone  in  the  firmament. 


TO  ITALY 

Italia,  O  Italia,  doomed  to  wear 

The  fatal  wreath  of  loveliness,  and  so 
The  record  of  illimitable  woe 

Branded  forever  on  thy  brow  to  bear! 

Would  that  less  beauty  or  more  vigor  were 
Thy  heritage!  that  they  who  madly  glow 
For  that  which  their  own  fury  layeth  low. 

More  terrible  might  find  thee,  or  less  fair! 

Not  from  thine  Alpine  rampart  should  the  horde 
Of  spoilers  then  descend,  or  crimson  stain 
Of  rolling  Po  quench  thirst  of  Gallic  steed; 

Nor  shouldst  thou,  girded  with  another's  sword. 
Smite  with  a  foreign  arm,  enslavement's  chain, 

Victor  or  vanquished,  equally  thy  meed. 

— Translated  by  Leigh  Hunt. 


OF  PROVIDENCE 

Just  as  a  mother,  with  sweet,  pious  face, 

Yearns  toward  her  little  children  from  her  seat. 
Gives  one  a  kiss,  another  an  embrace. 

Takes  this  upon  her  knees,  that  on  her  feet; 
And  while  from  actions,  looks,  complaints,  pretenses 

She  learns  their  feelings  and  their  various  will. 
To  this  a  look,  to  that  a  word,  dispenses. 

And,  whether  stern  or  smiling,  loves  them  still: — 
So  Providence  for  us,  high,  infinite. 

Makes  our  necessities  its  watchful  task, 

139 


140  VINCENZO  FILICAJA 

Hearkens  to  all  our  prayers,  helps  all  our  wants, 
And  e'en  if  it  denies  what  seems  our  right. 
Either  denies  because  'twould  have  us  ask, 

Or  seems  but  to  deny,  or  in  denying  grants. 

— Translated  by  Leigh  Hunt. 


SELF-REPROACH 

No,  not  to  thee  nor  to  thy  hate  I  owe, 
Nor  ever  did,  nor  ever  shall,  my  shame, 

0  Fortune!  I  acquit  thee  of  the  blow. 
Not  thy  injustice  or  thy  spite  I  blame. 

1  am  both  mark  and  shaft,  and  drew  the  bow; 
I  forged  the  bolt,  and  lighted  up  the  flame, 

And  the  black  cloud  whose  peal  has  rattled  so 

From  the  dark  smoke  of  my  offenses  came: 
Foul  vapor  from  an  impure  heart  that  flows 

And,  issuing  thence  in  exhalations  thin. 
Recoils  in  thunder  there  from  whence  it  rose. 

Thus  my  reproach  and  grief  turn  all  within, 
My  guilt  against  myself  the  javelin  throws, 

My  sin  the  lash  with  which  I  lash  my  sin. 

— Translated  by  James  Giassford. 


ACHILLES   IN    SCYROS 

BY 

PIETRO  METASTASIO 

TRANSLATED  BY  JOHN  HOOLE 


Ml 


INTRODUCTION 

f  TETRO  TRAPASSI— later  called  Metastasio— 
was  born  in  Rome,  January  28,  1698.  His 
parents  were  poor,  but  had  ambition  for  their 
son,  and  gave  him  as  much  education  as  their 
means  allowed.  As  a  young  lad,  he  was  overheard  by 
Vittorio  Gravina,  a  distinguished  tragic  actor,  while  he 
was  reciting  some  dramatic  poem.  Gravina  ofEered  to 
enlarge  the  boy's  education,  and  finally  adopted  him  as 
his  son,  changing  his  name  to  Metastasio.  The  youth 
am.ply  rewarded  his  patron's  benevolence.  He  had  a 
pleasing  manner,  a  brilliant  mind,  a  fine  voice,  and  an 
extraordinary  talent  for  both  literary  and  musical  com- 
position. Gravina  died  while  his  protege  was  still  a 
youth,  and  left  him  a  comfortable  fortune,  and  Metasta- 
sio thenceforth  devoted  himself  to  literature  and  music. 
His  first  composition  (in  1722)  was  a  little  masque  en- 
titled Gli  Orti  Esperidi  (^'Gardens  of  the  Hesperides"), 
which  drew  to  him  the  attention  of  La  Romanina  (Ma- 
ria Bulgarini),  a  popular  prima  donna,  who  sought  out 
the  young  author-composer,  and  induced  him  to  join 
her  household  and  place  himself  under  her  professional 
tutelage.  Here  he  learned  the  technic  of  music  and 
singing,  at  the  same  time  writing  numerous  plays 
and  operatic  librettos,  which  had  such  success  as  soon 
as  produced  that  he  soon  became  the  undisputed  sov- 

143 


144  INTRODUCTION 

ereign  of  the  lyric  stage.  Among  these  compositions 
were  La  Didone  Abbandonata  ("Forsaken  Dido"),  the 
Olimpiade,  Zenobia,  Semiramide,  and  Achilles  in  Scyros,  all 
of  which  show  marvelous  deftness  of  plot  and  richness 
of  poetic  imagery,  and  besides  this  they  lent  themselves 
to  the  requirements  of  melody  as  have  no  works  of  any 
other  Italian  writer.  The  Achilles  in  Scyros  was  written 
in  1736,  on  the  occasion  of  the  marriage  of  Maria  The- 
resa with  Francis,  Duke  of  Lorraine,  in  which  opera,  by 
representing  the  hero  as  torn  between  the  passion  of 
love  and  the  desire  for  military  glory,  he  seized  the  op- 
portunity of  paying  a  graceful  compliment  to  the  bride- 
groom, who  fully  appreciated  it,  and  offered  the  poet 
any  official  post  he  might  choose.  But  Metastasio  de- 
clined all  such  distinctions,  and  continued  his  devotion 
to  his  two  arts,  obtaining  great  fame  and  wealth,  and 
dying  in  Vienna  on  April  12,  1782,  full  of  years  and 
honors.  Mrs.  Piozzi  gives  an  interesting  account  of 
Metastasio's  peculiar  habits.  "He  never  changed  the 
fashion  of  his  wig  or  the  cut  or  color  of  his  coat.  His 
life  was  arranged  with  such  methodical  exactness  that 
he  rose,  studied,  chatted,  slept,  and  dined,  at  the  same 
hours  for  fifty  years  together,  enjoying  health  and  good 
spirits,  which  were  never  ruffled  excepting  when  the 
word  death  was  mentioned  before  him.  No  one  was  ever 
permitted  to  mention  that;  and  even  if  any  one  named 
the  smallpox  before  him,  he  would  see  that  person  no 
more.  No  solicitation  had  ever  prevailed  on  him  to  dine 
from  home."  A  good  edition  of  his  works,  in  sixteen 
volumes,  was  published  in  Florence  in  1819. 


ACHILLES   IN   SCYROS 

DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

LYCOMEDES— King  of  Scyros. 

ACHILLES — in    a    female    dress,    under    the    name    of 
PYRRHA,  in  love  with  DEIDAMIA. 

DEIDAMIA— the  daughter  of  LYCOMEDES,  in  love 
with  ACHILLES. 

ULYSSES — Ambassador  from  Greece. 

THEAGENES— Prince    of   Chalcis,   the    designed   hus- 
band of  DEIDAMIA. 

NEARCHUS— Guardian  of  Achilles. 

ARCAS— confidential  friend  of  ULYSSES. 

CHORUS  of  Bacchanals  and  Singers. 

SCENE— The  Island  of  Scyros. 


145 


ACT  I 

Scene  First 

Exterior  zneiv  of  a  mugnHicent  temple  dedicated  to  Bac- 
chus. Between  the  pillars  of  the  temple  on  one  side  is 
discovered  the  zvood  sacred  to  the  deity,  and  on  the  other 
side  of  the  seacoast  of  Scyros.  The  open  space  is  filled  with 
Bacchanals!  celebrating  the  festival  of  the  god,  to  the  sound 
of  various  instruments.  A  numerous  company  of  the  noble 
dames  of  Scyros  descends  the  steps  from  the  temple;  with 
these  are  seen  DEIDAMIA  and  ACHILLES,  the  latter  in 
IVO  man's  attire. 

CHORUS  OF  BACCHANALS 

While  each,  O  Father  Bacchus!  pays 
To  thee  this  hymn  of  grateful  praise, 
Descend  our  raptured  souls  to  raise 
With  thy  celestial  fire. 

PART  CHORUS 

O  source  from  whom  our  blessings  flow! 
Oblivion  sweet  of  human  woe  ! 
By  thee  we  scorn  this  life  below. 
And  to  the  skies  aspire. 

CHORUS 

Descend,  our  raptured  souls  to  raise 
With  thy  celestial  fire  ! 

147 


148  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

PART  CHORUS 

By  thee  the  blood  that  scarce  maintains 
A  sluggish  course  through  freezing  veins, 
With  warmth  renewed  fresh  vigor  gains, 
And  glows  with  young  desire. 

CHORUS 

Descend,  our  raptured  souls  to  raise 
With  thy  celestial  fire! 

PART  CHORUS 

Henceforth  deceit  shall  fly  the  breast 
That  owns  thee  for  its  chosen  guest; 
And  lips  before  with  falsehood  dressed 
The  words  of  truth  acquire. 

CHORUS 

Descend,  our  raptured  souls  to  raise 
With  thy  celestial  fire! 

PART  CHORUS 

Thou  mak'st  the  coward  Fame  revere; 
Thou  dry'st  from  weeping  eyes  the  tear; 
Thou  bidd'st  the  blush  of  modest  fear 
From  lovers'  cheeks  retire. 

CHORUS 

O  source  from  whom  our  blessings  flow  ! 
Oblivion  sweet  of  human  woe  ! 
By  thee  we  scorn  this  life  below. 
And  to  the  skies  aspire. 

(The  Chorus  is  intcrnipted  by  the  sound  of  trunipcts  from 
the  se  a.  J 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  149 

DEIDAMIA  (to  ACHILLES) 
Didst  thou  not  hear? 

ACHILLES 
Princess,  I  did. 

DEIDAMIA 

Who  dares 
With  sounds  profane  thus  rashly  to  disturb 
The  sacred  rites  of  our  mysterious  orgies? 

ACHILLES 

'Tis  so;  I'm  not  deceived;  from  yonder  seas 

The  sounding  clangor  comes;  and  yet  I  know  not 

Nor  can  divine  the  cause;  but  now  methinks 

I  see  two  vessels,  with  extended  sails, 

Swift  making  to  the  shore. 

(Two  ships  appear  in  the  distance.) 

DEIDAMIA  (alarmed) 
Ah,  me! 

ACHILLES 

What  fear'st  thou? 
As  yet  they're  distant  far. 

DEIDAMIA 
Oh,  let  us  fly! 
[Exeunt  all  hut  ACHILLES  and  DEIDAMIA  ] 

ACHILLES 
And  wherefore  fly? 


150  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

DEIDAMIA 

Hast  thou  not  heard  these  seas 
Are  filled  with  impious  pirates?      Thus  were  borne 
The  wretched  daughters  from  their  mourning  sires, 
The  kings  of  Tyre  and  Argos.      Know'st  thou  not 
The  recent  loss  that  Sparta  has  sustained? 
That  Greece  indignant  claims,  but  claims  in  vain. 
The  faithless  consort  from  her  Trojan  spoiler? 
Who  knows  but  these  deceitful  vessels  now 
Again  may  bring — O  Heaven!      I  sink  with  terror! 

ACHILLES 
Fear  not,  my  love,  is  not  Achilles  here? 

DEIDAMIA 
Oh,  hold!— 

ACHILLES 

And  if  Achilles — 

DEIDAMIA 

Oh,  forbear! 
Some  one  may  hear  thee;  shouldst  thou  be  discovered, 
I  am  lost  myself,  and  thou  to  me  art  lost. 
What  will  my  father  say,  deluded  thus? 
Thou  know'st  he  thinks  in  thee  he  views  a  maid, 
And  oft,  with  smiles,  has  witnessed  to  our  loves. 
But  what  must  chance  (I  tremble  at  the  thought) 
Should  he  e'er  learn  that,  veiled  in  Pyrrha's  name, 
I  love  Achilles? 

ACHILLES 

Pardon,  Deidamia, 
I  own  your  caution  just. 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  151 

Scene  Second 
ACHILLES,  DEIDAMIA,   NEARCHUS 

NEARCHUS 

Behold  the  lovers! 
And  must  I  ever  tremble  for  your  sake? 
Imprudent  pair!  a  thousand  times  I've  warned  you. 
But  warned  in  vain.      All  eyes  observe  how  still 
You  shun  society  and  court  the  shades; 
Your  conduct  is  the  theme  of  every  tongue. 
Go — seek  the  king;  the  palace  now  is  thronged, 
And  only  you  are  absent. 

ACHILLES   (not  attending) 

Sure  that  sound 
From  yonder  ships  bespeaks  them  freighted  deep 
With  arms  and  warriors. 

DEIDAMIA  {aside  to  NEARCHUS) 

Heavens!  what  martial  spirit 
Flames  in  his  looks!      Each  art  must  be  employed 
To  draw  him  hence. 

NEARCHUS  (to  both) 
And  still  you  linger  here! 

ACHILLES 

This  instant  I'll  depart;  but  let  me,  Princess, 
Behold  those  vessels  enter  first  the  port. 


152  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

DEIDAMIA 

What,  shall  I  leave  you  thus  beset  with  perils? 
But  this  thou  heed'st  not.      Oh,  I  see  too  well 
Thou  lov'st  not  Deidamia;  from  thy  heart 
I  know  thou  judgest  mine,  too  cruel  man! 

ACHILLES 

Then  let  us  go  ;  appease  thy  gentle  spirit  ; 
A  look  of  thine  subdues  me. 

DEIDAMIA 

No,  ingrate! 
Thou  but  deceiv'st  me,  thou  art  falsehood  all. 

Ah,  no,  ingrate!  thou  know'st  not  love, 

Or  if  thou  feel'st  his  dart, 
Thou  ne'er  for  me  the  cares  wilt  prove 

That  rend  a  gentle  heart. 

Love  at  thy  choice — thy  wayward  will 
Can  raise  or  quench  the  flame; 

Nor  heed  that  truth  which  lovers  still 
From  faithful  lovers  claim. 

[Exit.  ACHILLES  follows  her,  then  stops  at  the  entrance, 
and  turns  again  to  observe  the  ships,  zvhich  arc  notv  so  near 
that  on  the  deck  of  one  of  them  is  distinguished  a  warrior 
completely  anned.] 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  153 

Scene  Third 
NEARCHUS,    ACHILLES 

NEARCHUS 

The  olive  branch  that  decks  those  gliding  prows 
Proclaims  them  frien.dly  vessels. 

ACHILLES 

See,  Nearchus, 
Observe  that  warrior  clad  in  shining  arms, 
Of  port  majestic. 

NEARCHUS 

Hence!  it  ill  befits 
That  thou,  a  seeming  virgin,  wrapped  in  weeds 
Of  female  softness,  stilF  shouldst  linger  here 
Alone,  without  defense. 

ACHILLES 

But  say,  Nearchus, 
Am  I  not  deemed  thine  own?     Does  not  the  voice 
Of  general  fame  declare  thee  for  my  father? 
What  wonder,  then,  a  daughter  should  converse 
With  him  who  gave  her  birth? 

NEARCHUS 

But  well  thou  know'st 
Thy  stay  offends  the   Princess. 


154  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

ACHILLES 
True,  Nearchus.  (Looks  toward  ships.) 

NEARCHUS  (aside) 
How  hard  to  keep  Achilles  long  concealed! 

ACHILLES 

Oh,  did  yon  splendid  helmet  deck  my  brows, 
Yon  falchion  grace  my  side — no  more,  Nearchus, 
I'm  weary  of  disguise! — this  sex's  weeds 
Of  sloth  inglorious — time  demands — 

NEARCHUS 

What  time? 
Oh,  Heaven!  remember  that  this  sex's  weeds 
Have  won  and  still  preserved  the  fair  one  thine. 

ACHILLES 
'Tis  true,  but  yet — 

NEARCHUS 
Depart  ! 

ACHILLES 

Oh,  let  me  now 
But  for  a  moment  view  those  dazzling  arms. 
And  kindle  at  the  sight. 

NEARCHUS   (aside) 

What  course  remains?      (To  ACHILLES.) 
Yes,  stay;  indulge  thy  wish,  but  know  meantime 
Thy  rival  dwells  on  Deidamia's  charms. 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  155 

ACHILLES 
What  say'st  thou,  ha? 

NEARCHUS 

The  Prince  of  Chalcis  comes 
To  Scyros'  court,  and  Lycomedes  wills 
With  him  to  join  his  daughter's  hand. 

ACHILLES 

Oh,  heavens! 

NEARCHUS 

'Tis  true,  her  heart  is  thine;  but  should  thy  rival 
Assail  her  youth  with  all  the  arts  of  flattery. 
Alone  and  unobserved — who  knows,  Achilles? — 
He  may,  perchance,  prevail  and  win  her  from  thee. 

ACHILLES 

What  mortal  dares  my  wrath  excite. 
Or  hope  tO'  win  my  soul's  delight. 
While  still  to  guard  a  lover's  right, 
I  breathe  this  vital  air? 

What  though  the  power  of  beauty's  eyes 
Has  clothed  these  limbs  in  soft  disguise. 
My  breast  a  hero's  warmth  supplies, 
I  feel  Achilles  there! 

[Exit. 


156  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

Scene  Fourth 

NEARCHUS 

Great  is  the  talk  that  Thetis  has  enjoined: 

I  fear  each  moment  may  reveal  Achilles. 

'Tis  true  the  force  of  potent  love  restrains 

His  native  warmth;  but  when  perchance  he  hears 

The  trumpet's  sound,  or  sees  a  warrior  clad 

In  plate  and  mail,  his  genius  takes  alarm: 

He  raves  aloud,  and  scorns  his  feeble  dress 

Of  powerless  woman.     Should  he  learn  that  Troy 

Can  never  fall  without  his  fateful  arm; 

That  now  all  Greece  combined  requires  his  aid, 

What  were  his  feelings  then?      Forbid  it.  Heaven, 

That  any  Greek  should  seek  him  on  this  shore — 

(Looks   cut.)       Oh,    gods!       Am    I    deceived?       Is    that 

Ulysses? 
What  cause  has  brought  him  hither?     Not  by  chance, 
He  seeks  the  port  of  Scyros.      What  were  best? 
He  knew  me  once,  and  knew  me  at  the  court 
Of  aged  Peleus,  young  Achilles'  sire. 
'Tis  true,  since  then  a  length  of  years  has  passed. 
At  all  events,  I  would  remain  concealed. 
Nor  own  myself  the  same  he  saw  in  Greece. 
Ho!  stranger!  pass  no  further;  first  declare 
Thy  name  and  lineage:  such  is  here  the  law, 
And  such  my  sovereign's  will. 

Scene  Fifth 
ULYSSES,  ARCAS,  NEARCHUS 

ULYSSES 

The  law^  be  reverenced! 
Behold  Ulysses  here. 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  157 

NEARCHUS 

Ulysses,  heavens! 
Forgive,  O  generous  chief,  my  hasty  speech! 
I  fly  to  tell  the  King  these  welcome  tidings.         (Going.) 

ULYSSES 

Yet  one  word  more  :  art  thou  not  here  a  servant 
Of    royal   Lycomedes? 

NEARCHUS 

Rightly  spoken; 
I  am  his  servant. 

ULYSSES 
And  thy  name? 

NEARCHUS 
Nearchus. 

ULYSSES 
What  country  claims  thy  birth? 

NEARCHUS 
The  town  of  Corinth. 

ULYSSES 
Why  didst  thou  quit,  for  this,  thy  native  land? 

NEARCHUS 

I  came — Oh,  heavens! — I  tarry  here  too  long; 
Forgive  me,  sir,  the  King,  meantime  impatient, 
Knows  not  as  yet  what  ships  have  reached  the  port. 


158  PIETRO  METASTASI© 

ULYSSES 
Go  then,  my  friend,  despatch. 

NEARCHUS  (aside) 

How  well  I  feigned! 
Yet  scarcely  could  escape  his  wise  detection. 

[Exit. 

Scene  Sixth 
ULYSSES 
Heaven  favors,  Areas,  now  our  great  design. 

ARCAS 

Whence  springs  this  hope? 

ULYSSES 

Didst  thou  not  hear  our  converse? 
Thou  saw'st  who  parted  from  me:  know  I  met  him 
At  Peleus'  court,  now  many  years  elapsed. 
With  me  he  feigned  his  country  and  his  name: 
But  when  I  questioned  him  he  seemed  confused. 
In  female  garb,  Achilles  lives  concealed. 
Fly,  Areas,  and  pursue  his  steps  who  late 
Amused  my  ear  with  falsehood  ;  seek  to  know 
His  real  state;  why  settled  here,  and  where 
He  now  resides — ^by  whom  accompanied; 
The  slightest  hint  may  guide  us. 

ARCAS 
I  am  gone.     (Going.) 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  159 

ULYSSES 

Yet  hear  !     Take  heed  that  not  the  least  surmise 
Be  given  to  make  it  thought  we  seek  Achilles. 

ARCAS 

Such  caution  to  a  follower  of  Ulysses 
Were  surely  needless. 

{Exit. 

Scene  Seventh 

ULYSSES 

With  a  prosperous  wind 
Thus  far  our  vessel  sails.     To  some,  perchance, 
This  well-timed  meeting,  this  confused  discourse, 
Those  troubled  looks  were  little;  but  to  those 
Who  like  Ulysses  judge,  they  promise  much. 

A  slender  gleam  in  dreary  night 
Can  guide  the  skilful  pilot  right, 
Till  soon  he  finds  the  polar  light, 
And  safely  plows  the  wat'ry  way. 

Full  oft  a  single  track  has  sped 
The  pilgrim  lost,  and  surely  led 
No  more  fallacious  paths  to  tread. 
That  lure  the  heedless  feet  astray. 

[Exit. 


160  PIETRO  METASTASI© 

Scene  Eighth 
The  apartment  of  DEIDAMIA. 
LYCOMEDES,  DEIDAMIA 

LYCOMEDES 

But  if  thou  see'st  him  not,  then  wherefore  think 
The  Prince  must  prove  ungracious  in  thine  eyes? 

DEIDAMIA 

Already  have  I  heard,  and  much,  my  lord. 
Of  Prince  Theagenes. 

LYCOMEDES 

And  wilt  thou  judge 
By  others'  eyes?      O  rash  and  unadvised! 
Go  to  the  royal  garden,  there  expect  me; 
I'll  join  thee  soon,  and  with  me  thither  bring 
Thy  plighted  spouse. 

DEIDAMIA 
My  plighted  spouse? 

LYCOMEDES 

He  Comes 
Relying  on  my  faith.      All  is  prepared. 

DEIDAMIA 
At  least,  my  lord,  my  father,  hear — 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  161 

LYCOMEDES 

No  more! 
Th'  ambassador  from  Greece  expects  an  audience. 
No  more  oppose  my  will  ;  embrace  my  counsel 
As  king  and  father. 

DEIDAMIA 

Then,  my  dearest  lord, 
You  counsel,   not  command  me. 

LYCOMEDES 

When  a  father 
Gives  to  a  daughter  counsel,  he  commands. 

To   inexperiencel  minds  that  know 
Few  fickle  turns  of  human  woe. 
The  advice  that  faithful  lips  bestow 

Will  oft  like  harsh  decrees  offend, 
Confounding  rashly  praise  and  blame, 
Who  mildly  rules,  they  tyrant  name. 

And  cruel  him  who  proves  a  friend. 


[Exit. 


Scene  Ninth 
DEIDAMIA 

And  shall  I  break  my  faith  to  him  I  love? 
No;  ere  another  spouse — 

ACHILLES  (enters) 

And  may  I  then 
Presume  to  intrude  on  Deidamia's  presence? 
I  would  not  come  unwished-for — ha!  alone? 
II 


162  PIETRO  METASTASI© 

Where  is  thy  plighted  lord?      I  hoped  to  find 
The  Prince  of  Chalcis  breathing  ardent  vows 
At  Deidaipia's  feet. 

DEIDAMIA 

And  hast  thou  heard — 

ACHILLES 

All,  all  is  known,  but  not  from  thee!     O  proof, 

0  wondrous  proof  of  thy  unsullied  faith! 
From  me,  inhuman,  hast  thou  well  concealed 
This  treason  to  my  hopes — from  me  who  loved  thee 
Far  more  than  life;  from  me,  who  thus  inglorious. 
In  these  vile  weeds  dishonored  for  thy  sake — 
False  Deidamia! 

DEIDAMIA 

O  Eternal  Powers! 
Reproach  me  not;  believe  me,  till  this  day 

1  never  heard  of  these  detested  nuptials. 
But  now  my  father  urged  the  fatal  union; 
Trembling  I  stood,  and,  senseless  at  the  shock, 
Felt  all  my  blood  congealed  within  my  veins. 

ACHILLES 
What  canst  thou  now  resolve? 

DEIDAMIA 

To  hazard  all, 
But  never  to  forsake  thee!      Prayers  and  tears 
Shall  be  employed  to  melt  Lycomedes. 
Sure  he  will  yield,  if  nature's  voice  can  bend 
A  father's  heart  to  save  a  darling  child. 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  163 

And,   should  he  still  pursue  his  cruel   purpose, 
Oh,  never,  never  must  he  hope  to  shake 
My  constant  faith.      Achilles  was  the  first, 
The  first  dear  object  of  my  virgin  heart, 
And  my  last  dying  breath  shall  sigh  Achilles! 
Yes,  thou  may'st  see  me  dead,  but  never  see 
Thy  love  betrayed  by  Deidamia's  change. 

ACHILLES 

Transporting  sounds!      How,  how  shall  I  repay 
Such  unexampled  goodness? 

DEIDAMIA 

Grant  but  this: 
Preserve,  if  possible,  with  greater  heed 
Our  secret  from  discovery. 

ACHILLES 

What  are  else 
These  woman's  vestures? 

DEIDAMIA 

But  can  these  avail 
If  every  action,  every  look  belies  them? 
Thy  free  and  manly  step  but  ill  beseems 
The  timorous  maid;  thine  eyes  too  boldly  dart 
Their  wandering  glances;  every  little  cause 
Excites  thy  temper's  wrath,  nor  seems  thy  anger 
Such  anger  as  a  woman's  bosom  breeds. 
If  but  a  helm  or  javelin  meet  thy  sight. 
Or  let  them  be  but  named,  thy  look  is  changed. 
Thy  glaring  eyeballs  flash  with  living  fire, 
Pyrrha  is  lost,  and  all  proclaims  Achilles. 


164  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

ACHILLES 

Hard  is  the  task  for  nature  to  reverse 
Her  first  designs. 

DEIDAMIA 

And  sure  as  hard  the  task 
To  oppose  a  father's  will.  With  such  a  plea 
May  Deidamia  wed  the  Prince  of  Chalcis? 

ACHILLES 

Oh,  never,  never!  I  submit — O  pardon! — 
Whate'er  thou  bidd'st  Achilles  shall  obey. 

DEIDAMIA 
But  now  you  promised,  yet — 

ACHILLES 

Oh,   no!      This  once 
I  yield  to  thee.      I'll  rein  my  struggling  passions. 
Nor  speak  again  of  war;  if  I  forget 
Thy  bidding  more,  to  punish  my  neglect 
Fly  to  my  rival's  arms,  and  I  forgive  thee. 

DEIDAMIA 

Be  silent!      Hark!      Some  stranger  is  at  hand 
To  catch  th'  unguarded  sound. 

Scene  Tenth 

ACHILLES,  DEIDAMIA,  ULYSSES 

ACHILLES 

And  who  art  thou 
That  rashly  hast  presumed  t'  invade  these  seats 
Of  sacred  privacy?      What   wouldst  thou?       Speak! 
Speak,  or  this  insolence— 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  165 

DEIDAMIA 
Pyrrha  !     Forbear  ! 

ULYSSES    (aside) 
What  stem  demeanor  in  a  female  form! 

DEIDAMIA  (aside  to  ACHILLES) 
Didst  thou  not  promise? 

ACHILLES  (aside) 

True,  my  Deidamia! 
I  stand  reproved. 

ULYSSES 

Say,   are  not  these  the  rooms 
Of  royal  Lycomedes? 

DEIDAMIA 

Lycomedes 
Resides  not  here. 

ULYSSES 

If  I,  a  stranger,  erred. 
Forgive  th'  intrusion.      (About  to  go.) 

DEIDAMIA 

Yet  vouchsafe  a  word: 
What  seek'st  thou  with  the  King? 

ULYSSES 

From  him  the  Greeks 
Request  a  warlike  aid  of  ships  and  men. 
All  Greece  assembling  with  confederate  arms 
To  avenge  the  general  wrong. 


166  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

ACHILLES  (aside) 

How  happy  those 
Who  quit  the  dwellings  of  enfeebling  sloth 
To  join  this  host  of  heroes! 

DEIDAMIA  (aside) 

See  !      Already 
His  placid  features  change. 

ULYSSES 

Behold,  a  path 
Is  opened  now  to  every  daring  mind 
That  pants  for  valiant  deeds;  the  vilest  breast 
Must  catch  the  kindling  sparks. 

ACHILLES  (aside) 

And  yet  Achilles 
Still  loiters  here! 

DEIDAMIA   (aside) 

Such  converse  must  not  be! 

I  tremble  at  the  danger.     (To  ULYSSES.)    Yonder  way 
Will  lead  thy  steps  to  Lycomedes'  presence. 
Stranger,  farewell.      Come,  Pyrrha,  let  us  hence. 

(About  to  go.) 

ACHILLES   (returns) 

Say,  friend,  what  port  receives  the  Grecian  fleet 
United  for  this  glorious  enterprise? 

DEIDAMIA   (to  ACHILLES) 
Why,  Pyrrha,  this  delay? 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  167 

ACHILLES 

Behold  I  follow. 

0  tyrant,  tyrant  Love!  [Exit   with  DEIDAMIA. 

Scene  Eleventh 

ULYSSES 

Or  keen  desire 
To  find  this  youth  presents  in  every  place 
His  imaged  form,  or  Pyrrha  is  Achilles! 

1  well  remember  such  were  Peleus'  features 

In  manhood's  ripening  years — that  speech,  those  looks — 

It  must  be  so;  but  yet  Ulysses'  caution 

Will  not  too  soon  confide.    Who  knows?     Appearance 

May  still  deceive  me.      Should  this  prove  Achilles 

I  will  be  wary  ere  I  speak;  the  time, 

The  place,  each  circumstance,  must  all  be  weighed. 

That  pilot  rarely  plows  the  waves  with  safety 

Who  sounds  not  first  the  depth.     We  yet  must  pause 

Till  all  is  ripe  before  we  strike  the  blow, 

Then  make  it  sure. 

Scene  Twelfth 
ULYSSES,  ARCAS 
ARCAS 
Ulysses  ! 

ULYSSES 

Areas  here? 
How  hast  thou  found  admittance  in  these  walls? 

ARCAS 
I  saw  you  enter  and  pursued  your  steps. 


168  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

ULYSSES 

What  hast  thou  learned  meantime  that  may  import 
Our  great  design? 

ARCAS 

But  little,  good  my  Lord. 
That  to  this  land  since  first  Nearchus  came 
A  year  is  now  complete.      With  him  he  brings 
His  only  daughter,  graced  above  her  sex 
With  more  than  female  gifts.     For  her  the  Princess, 
The  royal  Deidamia,  bears  a  love 
A  wondrous  love,  beyond  a  woman's  friendship. 

ULYSSES 
How  dost  thou  name  this  virgin? 

ARCAS 

Pyrrha. 

ULYSSES 
Pyrrha? 

ARCAS 

And  for  her  sake  Nearchus  holds  a  place 
Among  the  royal  train  of  Scyros'  court. 

ULYSSES 
And  think'st  thou  this  is  little  thou  hast  learned? 

ARCAS 
Why,  what  imports  it? 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  169 

ULYSSES 

O  my  trusty  friend! 
In  one  short  moment  we  have  traveled  far. 
Hear  me,  and  then  confess. 

Scene  Thirteenth 

ULYSSES,  ARCAS,  NEARCHUS 

NEARCHUS 

My  Lord,  delay  not; 
E'en  now  the  King  expects  you. 

ULYSSES 

Say,  which  way 
Leads  to  the  royal  presence? 

NEARCHUS 

Yonder  passage 
Conducts  us  to  him. 

ULYSSES 

Lead,  I  follow  thee. 
(Aside  to  ARCAS.)      Some  other  time  I'll  tell  thee. 

[Exit  with  NEARCHUS. 

Scene  Fourteenth 

ARCAS 

Like  Ulysses 
What  man  can  pierce  the  veil  of  human  life? 
What  seems  to  others  dark,  to  him  is  light, 


170  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

As  Sol's  meridian  beam.      Nor  art  nor  nature 
E'er  formed  his  equal.     Where  is  he  who  knows 
Like  him  to  mold  his  looks  to  every  passion, 
Yet  keep  his  heart  a  stranger  to  them  all? 
Who  can,  like  him,  with  soft,  persuasive  speech. 
Enchain  the  yielding  soul?      With  every  moment 
Can  change  his  genius,  language,  form,  and  likeness. 
Such  have  I  never  known;  still,  day  by  day, 
I  watch  Ulysses,  ever  at  his  side, 
And  every  day  I  find  Ulysses  new. 

When  summer  showers  refresh  the  plain, 

And  skies  a  changing  aspect  show, 
When  Sol,  returning,  shines  again, 

Thus  Iris  dyes  her  varied  bow. 

The  glossy  dove,  in  open  light. 

Thus  shows  her  many-colored  plumes, 

And  when  she  spreads  her  wings  for  flight, 
A  thousand  different  hues  assumes. 

[Exit. 


Scene  Fifteenth 

The  gardens  belonging  to  the  palace 
ACHILLES,  DEIDAMIA 

DEIDAMIA 

Achilles,  no — I  can  no  longer  trust 

Thy  oft-forgotten  promise.      Shouldst  thou  stay, 

I  know,  in  presence  of  Theagenes, 

Thy  rage  would  know  no  bounds;  thy  look,  thy  speech 

Might  soon  discover  all.     If  yet  thou  lov'st  me, 

Leave  me — in  pity  leave  me! 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  171 

ACHILLES 

Yet  permit  me, 
Retired  apart,  in  silence  to  behold 
The  rival  of  my  love. 

DEIDAMIA 

Oh,  heavens!  I  tremble 
To  think  what  danger  waits  thee — ^but  he  comes. 

ACHILLES   (looks  off) 

Is  that  the  man  whose  rashness  has  presumed? 
And  shall  I  tamely  bear — 

DEIDAMIA 

Is  this  thy  faith? 
Already  thou  forget'st — 

ACHILLES 

A  hasty  impulse — 
No  more,  my  love;  'tis  past,  and  I  am  calm. 

DEIDAMIA 
Again  thy  warmth  will  speak. 

ACHILLES 

Oh,  no,  by  Heaven! 
Forgive  me,  Deidamia!        (Retires  up  stage.) 


172  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

Scene  Sixteenth 

ACHILLES,  DEIDAMIA,  LYCOMEDES, 
THEAGENES 

LYCOMEDES 

Dearest  daughter, 
Behold  thy  husband  !     Thou,  Theagenes, 
Illustrious  Prince,  behold  thy  destined  spouse. 

ACHILLES    (up   stage,   aside) 
Still,  still,  my  soul,  repress  thy  swelling  rage! 

THEAGENES 

Whoe'er,  O  Princess,  hears  what  Fame  relates 
Of  Deidamia's  charms,  may  deem  she  Matters; 
But  when  he  sees  thee  thus,  will  think  her  tongue 
Has  paid  but  scanty  praise.      Lo!  I,  subdued. 
Your  happy  prisoner,  yield  my  freedom  here. 
And  give  my  life  in  dowry  with  my  love. 

ACHILLES    (aside) 

Unheard-of    insolence!       (Looks    disdainfully   at    THEA- 
GENES, and  draws  near  the  group.) 

DEIDAMIA 

My  merits,  Prince, 
Have  ne'er  aspired  so  high;  nor  should  you  now 
So  far  extol  them.      (Sees  ACHILLES.)      Pyrrha,  hence! 
What  mean'st  thou? 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  173 

ACHILLES 

I  speak  not,  Princess,      (Retires.) 

DEIDAMIA  (aside) 

Oh,  what  terror  shakes 
My  every  sense! 

THEAGENES  (to  LYCOMEDES) 

What  virgin  fair  is  that 
Of  lofty  mien? 

LYCOMEDES 
That  virgin  is  your  rival. 

DEIDAMIA  (aside) 
I  sink  with  apprehension! 

ACHILLES    (aside) 

Ah,  too  surely 
He  pierces  my  disguise! 

LYCOMEDES  (to  THEAGENES) 

Her  name  is  Pyrrha, 
Sole  partner  now  of  Deidamia's  love; 
Nor  yet  the  world,  from  east  to  western  Ind, 
E'er  saw  so  constant  or  so  fond  a  pair. 

DEIDAMIA  (aside) 

He  speaks  in  sportive  vein,  but  little  thinks 
How  well  he  paints  two  faithful  lovers'  vows. 


174  PIETRO  METASTASI© 

LYCOMEDES 

What  thinks  my  daughter  of  the  noble  consort 
Her  father's  care  provides? 

DEIDAMIA 

Alas!  my  Lord, 
My  inexperience  knows  not  yet  to  prize- 
But  if  I  dared — 

LYCOMEDES 

Thou  blushest,  Deidamia! 
I  read  thy  heart,  and  seek  to  know  no  further. 

The  blushes  kindhng  on  thy  cheek 

Thy  virgin  wishes  prove 
Before  thy  sire  thou  canst  not  speak 

The  tender  words  of  love. 

'Twere  cruel,  then,  my  presence  here 

Should  but  increase  thy  pain  ; 
Farewell,  and,  freed  from  every  fear. 

No  more  thy  thoughts  restrain. 


Scene  Seventeenth 
DEIDAMIA,  THEAGENES,  ACHILLES 

ACHILLES  (aside,  up  stage) 

Oh,  that  I  now  could  free  these  coward  limbs 
From  hated  female  weeds,  the  weeds  of  shame! 


[Exit. 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  175 

THEAGENES 

Permit  me,  fairest  Princess,  thus  before  thee 

To  paint  the  warmth  that  glows  within  my  breast; 

To  tell  thee  all — 

DEIDAMIA 

Oh,  speak  no  more  of  love! 
I  must  not  hear.      In  me  behold  his  foe. 

I  hate  the  boast  of  lovesick  fires. 
And  every  plaint  of  fond  desires; 
The  train  of  lovers  I  despise, 
And  liberty  alone  I  prize. 
If  all,  like  me,  were  thus  sincere, 
The  truth  would  less  offend  our  ear  ; 
And  falsehood  then  would  rarely  prove 
The  bane  of  those  that  trust  in  love. 

[Exit  DEIDAMIA,  followed  by  ACHILLES, 
who  stops  as  lie  is  about  to  go. 


Scene  Eighteenth 
THEAGENES,  ACHILLES 

THEAGENES 

Almighty  powers!      Does  Deidamia  thus 
Receive  my  vows?     In  what  have  I  offended? 
And  wherefore  then — let  me  pursue  her  steps. 

(About  to  go.) 

ACHILLES    (meets  THEAGENES) 
Forbear!      Say,  whither  wouldst  thou  go? 


176  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

THEAGENES 

I  go 

To  Deidamia      Let  me  once  again 
Renew  my  suit. 

ACHILLES   (resolutely) 
It  is  not  now  permitted. 

THEAGENES 
Who  shall  forbid  me? 

ACHILLES 
I! 

THEAGENES 

Dost  thou  forbid? 

ACHILLES 

Yes,  I  forbid  thee,  Prince;  and  know  yet  more, 
That  when  I  speak,  I  never  speak  in  vain. 

(About  to  go.) 
THEAGENES  (aside) 

The  nymphs    of  Scyros  sure  are  wondrous  strange  ! 
Strange  in  their  speech,  in  their  demeanor  strange. 
And  yet  there's  something  in  this  haughty  maid 
That  pleases  while  she  threatens.      (To  ACHILLES.) 
Hear  me,  fair  one, 
Declare  what  cause — 

ACHILLES   (going) 
No  more — let  this  suffice. 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  177 

THEAGENES 

And  can  you  think  your  words  alone  will  strike 
A  terror  here — that  you  alone  have  power 
To  shake  the  purpose  of  Theagenes? 

ACHILLES  (sternly) 
Such  power  is  mine — believe  and  tremble. 

THEAGENES  (aside) 

Heavens  ! 
That  fierceness  kindles  here  a  new  commotion  ! 

(ACHILLES  meets  DEI  DAM  I A   at  the  exit.) 

DEIDAMIA 

False  to  my  hopes!     And  art  thou  yet  content 
To  fail  in  every  claim  of  love  and  honor? 

ACHILLES 

Alas!  'tis» true!     I  own  my  warmth  betrayed  me 

[Exit  DEIDAMIA. 

THEAGENES 

Hear,  beauteous  nymph!      I  will  obey  thy  mandate; 
But,  in  return,  indulge    my  sole-  request: 
Give  me  to  know  what  this  resentment  means, 
And  why  on  me  are  bent  thine»  angry  eyes, 
And,  ah,  that  sigh — that  look — thou  art  confused; 
Whence  comes  this  change?    Oh,  speak!    Why  art  thou 
silent? 

12 


178  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

ACHILLES 

I  strive  to  speak,  but  strive  in  vain, 
My  frozen  lips  each  word  deny; 

'Tis  Love  can  issuing  words  restrain, 
'Tis  Love  can  words  at  will  supply. 

That  Love  who,  at  his  choice,  can  raise 
The  vile  to  deeds  of  high  desert; 

That  Love  who  in  a  moment  lays 
Beneath  his  yoke  the  firmest  heart. 

Scene  Nineteenth 

THEAGENES 

Where  am  I?     Sure  I  dream!     In  such  a  face 

Anger  itself  can  please — perchance  she  loves  me, 

And  hence  forbids  me  to  pursue  a  rival. 

And  can  it  be?      So  soon  to  yield  to  love! 

So  soon  to  feel  the  pangs  of  jealous  passion! 

Such  words  of  menace  from  a  virgin  lip; 

Such  bold  deportment  from  the  sex  that  ever 

Is  bred  in  timid  softness!      Wondrous  all! 

I  know  not  how — she  pains,  and  yet  she  charms  me. 

What  eye  before  has  ever  seen 

Such  winning  fierceness,  pleasing  pride, 

That  love  inspires  with  haughty  mien, 
And  gains  the  heart  by  threats  defied? 

To  her  the  sword,  the  lance  resign, 
And  o'er  her  brow  the  helmet  place; 

Her  form  with  Pallas'  self  may  shine. 
For  maiden  charm  and  martial  grace. 


[Exit. 


[Exit. 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  179 

ACT      II 

Scene  First 

An  apartment  adorned  with  statues  representing  the 
labors  of  Hercules. 

ULYSSES,  ARCAS 
ARCAS 

All,  all,  as  you  have  willed,  is  now  prepared. 
The  gifts  are  ready  to  present  the  King  : 
With  these  I've  placed  a  coat  of  shining  mail. 
And  military  weapons.      To  your  followers 
'Tis  given  in  charge  to  feign  a  sudden  tumult, 
With  warlike  clangors.      Tell  me  now  what  mean 
These  mysteries  unexplained?      Or  what  can  these 
Avail  our  great  design? 

ULYSSES 

To  find  Achilles 
Amidst  a  thousand  virgins. 

ARCAS 

How  distinguish 
The  youth  disguised  in  vestments  of  the  fair? 

ULYSSES 

Mark  well  and  thou  shalt  soon  behold  him,  Areas, 
With  eager  eyes  devour  the  dazzling  helm 
And  corselet's  plates;  but  when  he  hears  the  din 
Of  clashing  arms,  and  tnxmpets'  brazen  sounds, 
That  rouse,  with  generous  notes,  the  warrior's  soul, 
Then,  Areas,  shalt  thou  see  the  smothered  flame 
Burst  forth  resistless  and  proclaim  Achilles. 


180  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

ARCAS 
Too  flattering  are  your  hopes. 

ULYSSES 

I  know  Achilles, 
His  warlike  genius  ;  from  his  infant  years 
Arms  were  his  sole  delight;  and  well  I  know 
'Tis  vain  to  oppose  the  powerful  bent  of  nature, 
Confirmed  by  early  habit.       'Midst  the  sweets 
Of  downy  rest,  scarce  saved  from  stormy  seas, 
The  pilot  vows  to  quit  the  land  no  more; 
But  when  the  storm  is  hushed  he  leaves  again 
His  downy  rest,  and  plows  secure  the  waves. 

ARCAS 

You  sure  have  other  signs  that  might  direct 
Your  present  search. 

ULYSSES 

All  other  signs  are  doubtful. 
But  these  are  certainty.      Remember,  Areas, 
No  proof  can  rank  with  this,  when  nature  speaks 
With  impulse  undisguised. 

ARCAS 

But  if  Achilles 
(As  thus  you  deem)  for  Deidamia  feel 
Such  strong  affection,  grant  him  now  discovered, 
What  art  shall  win  him  from  the  fair  he  loves? 

ULYSSES 

With  every  caution  first  secure  discovery: 
Discovered  once,  Ulysses  undisguised 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  181 

Will  prove  all  means  to  assail  his  fiery  temper; 
Rouse  in  his  breast  the  latent  flame  of  honor, 
And  kindle  on  his  cheek  the  glow  of  shame. 

ARCAS 

But  how  to  gain  the  means  of  converse  with  him, 
Defended  thus  from  all  access? 

ULYSSES 

The   occasion 
May  yet  be  found,  and  heedful  let  us  watch 
The  wished-for  time,  which,  should  we  fail  to  find, 
It  must  be  hastened.      Yes,  the  trial — 

ARCAS 
See 

Where  Pyrrha  comes!  now  seize  the  moment — 

ULYSSES 

Peace! 
And  look,  she  comes  alone.      Myself  will  seem 
Intent  on  other  thoughts;  meanwhile  do  thou 
Observe  her  every  gesture.      (They  retire  behind  as 
ACHILLES  enters.) 


Scene  Second 

ACHILLES 

See  the  chief 
Whom  Greece  has  sent?     But  that  my  fair  forbids  it, 
How  gladly  would  I  join  in  converse  with  him. 
Yet,  sure,  without  offense  to  Deldamia, 
In  silence  I  may  here  indulge  my  eyes 
To  gaze  with  rapture  on  his  godlike  form. 


182  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

ULYSSES  (aside  to  ARCAS) 
What  now,  my  Areas,  say? 

ARCAS 

His  looks  on  thee 
Are  bent  with  fixed  attention. 

ULYSSES  (examines  the  statues) 

In  this  palace 
All  speaks  a  kingly  soul.      This  sculptured  marble 
Seems  warm  with  life;  behold  Alcides  there 
Subdues  the  hydra;  see  in  every  feature 
His  martial  spirit,  while  the  artist's  hand 
Informs  the  stone  with  all  a  hero's  fire. 
(To  ARCAS.)      Mark  if  he  hears! 

ARCAS  (to  ULYSSES) 
He  dwells  upon  your  words. 

ULYSSES  (turns  to  the  statues) 

Lo!  where  he  lifts  Antaeus  from  the  ground 

To  hurl  him  headlong  down.     The  artist  here 

Excels  himself.      Oh,  how  the  great  example 

Of  godlike  virtue,  nobly  thus  expressed, 

Should  warm  the  generous  breast  !   Oh,  would  to  heaven 

That  I  could  boast  Alcides'  mighty  deeds! 

Transcendent  hero!  yes,  thy  name  shall  last, 

From  age  to  age,  to  far-succeeding  times! 

ACHILLES   (aside) 

O  mighty  gods!  what  tongue  shall  thus  foretell 
Of  lost,  despised  Achilles! 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  183 

ULYSSES  (to  ARCAS) 

Areas,  speak: 
How  seems  he  now? 

ARCAS 

He  communes  with  himself 
As  strongly  agitated. 

ULYSSES 

Mark  him  still.      (Turns  again  to  the  statues.) 
What  do  I  see?     Behold  the  same  Alcides, 
The  terror  late  of  Erymanthus'  woods, 
Disguised  in  female  weeds,  and  placed  beside 
His  favorite  Iole.      How  much  he  erred, 
(Ill-judging  sculptor!)  to  debase  his  art 
With  sad  memorials  of  a  hero's  fall! 
Alcides  here,  alas!  excites  our  pity. 
No  more  Alcides  son  of  thundering  Jove. 

ACHILLES 
'Tis  true,  'tis  true — Oh,  my  eternal  shame! 

ULYSSES  (to  ARCAS) 
What  thinkest  thou,  Areas,  now? 

ARCAS 

He  seems  to  rave 
With  conscious  feelings. 

ULYSSES 
Let  us  then  accost  him.    (Advances  to  ACHILLES.) 


184  PIETRO  METASTASI© 

ARCAS  (to  ULYSSES) 

The  King's  at  hand;  take  heed,  lest  aught  too  soon 
Reveal  our  chief  design. 

ULYSSES  (to  ARCAS) 

O  ill-timed  meeting! 
The  work  was  near  complete. 


Scene  Third 

LYCOMEDES  (enters) 

I  sought  you,  Pyrrha. 
Attend  my  will!      Ulysses,  look,  the  sun 
Declines  already  to  the  western  waves; 
Vouchsafe,  illustrious  guest,  with  Lycomedes 
To  share  the  pleasures  of  the  festive  board. 

ULYSSES 
Your  will,  O  mighty  King,  to  me  is  law. 

LYCOMEDES 

At  dawning  day,  Ulysses,  shalt  thou  see 

The  ships  and  arms  the  Greeks  request  from  Scyros; 

Then  mark  how  these  exceed  thy  utmost  hopes. 

And  learn  from  these  how  Lycomedes  honors 

His  brave  allies,  and  how  esteems  in  thee 

The  generous  messenger  of  Greece  combined. 

ULYSSES 

The  soul  of  Lycomedes,  ever  great, 

Still  holds  her  wonted  tenor;  yes,  from  me 

The  Achaian  princes,  whose  confederate  powers 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  185 

Now  threaten  faithless  Troy,  shall  learn  the  friendship 

Of  royal  Lycomedes.      Generous  proofs 

I  bring:  these  arms  and  vessels  which  your  care 

Has  nobly  furnished  for  the  common  cause.      (Aside.) 

But  deeper  aims  are  mine  ;  a  mightier  aid 

I  mean  that  Greece  shall  win  from  Scyros'  shore. 

When  Troy  shall  learn  the  glorious  aid 

I  bring  from  Scyros'  shore, 
E'en  Hector's  self  will  stand  dismayed. 

And  dread  the  Grecian  power. 

This  single  aid  he  more  shall  fear, 
Than  all  that  ranged  in  arms  appear 

To  swell  the  Grecian  host: 
Than  all  the  fleet's  unnumbered  sail 
That  spread  their  canvas  to  the  gale 

For  Phrygia's  distant  coast. 


[Exit. 


Scene  Fourth 

LYCOMEDES,  ACHILLES 

LYCOMEDES 

Wouldst  thou  believe  it,  Pyrrha?      Yes,  on  thee 
Depends  the  future  peace  of  Lycomedes. 

ACHILLES 
What  mean  these  words? 

LYCOMEDES 

Yes,  dearest  maid,  'tis  thou 
Canst  make  at  will  a  grateful  monarch  happy. 


186  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

ACHILLES 
What  power  is  mine? 

LYCOMEDES 

My  daughter  Deidamia, 
Repugnant  to  a  father's  will,  rejects 
The  proffered  union  with  the  Prince  of  Chalcis. 

ACHILLES 

And  wherefore  this  to  me? 

LYCOMEDES 

Thou  rulest  at  pleasure 
Her  every  thought,  and  all  her  heart  is  thine. 

ACHILLES 
And  would  you,  Lycomedes,  ask  from  me — 

LYCOMEDES 

Yes,  teach  her  to  respect  a  father's  choice  ; 
Teach  her  the  virtues  of  a  noble  husband, 
And  kindle  in  her  breast  a  flame  for  him 
Who  merits  all  her  love:  so  may  she  meet 
His  fond  address  v/ith  equal  fair  return, 
And  all  a  wife's  endearments. 

ACHILLES  (aside) 

Yes,  to  you, 
To  you,  ye  weeds  of  shame,  I  owe  this  insult! 

LYCOMEDES 
What  says  my  Pyrrha? 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  18: 

ACHILLES 

Thinkest  thou  then  with  me 
Such  ministry  may  suit?     Ah,  Lycomedes, 
Thou  little  knowest  me!      I?      Eternal  powers! 
Shall  I — Oh,  seek  some  better  advocate 
To  enforce  a  father's  will. 

LYCOMEDES 

What  fears  my  Pyrrha? 
Perchance  she  deems  Theagenes  a  lover 
That  merits  not  the  hand  of  Deidamia? 

ACHILLES   (aside) 

What  shall  I  say?      No  longer  can  I  bear 
Such  cruel  sufferings. 

LYCOMEDES 

Tell  me,  can  my  child 
E'er  find  a  nobler  union? 

ACHILLES   (aside) 

'Tis  too  much! 
(TO  LYCOMEDES.)      Hear  me,  my  Lord- 


Scene  Fifth 
NEARCHUS  (enters) 

The  banquet  is  prepared, 
And  all,  O  Lycomedes,  wait  your  presence. 


188  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

LYCOMEDES 

Then  let  us  hence.     (To  ACHILLES.)     Remember,  thou 

hast  heard 
My  dearest  wish;  to  thee  I  trust,  my  Pyrrha. 
Then  to  thy  friendship  let  me  owe  my  peace. 

Thy  words  the  stubborn  maid  may  move 

Her  last  resolves  to  own: 
To  embrace  a  father's  tender  love, 

Or  meet  a  father's  frown. 

Tell  her  within  this  breast  I  bear 

The  heart  of  king  and  sire: 
Then  let  her  ease  a  parent's  care, 

Or  dread  a  monarch's  ire. 

{Exit. 

Scene  Sixth 

ACHILLES,  NEARCHUS 

ACHILLES 

No  more,  Nearchus,  no,  I'll  hear  no  more 
Of  temper  or  disguise  ;  my  soul  is  fixed. 
No  longer  hope  t'  abuse  my  yielding  nature. 
Let  us  depart. 

NEARCHUS 
And  whither? 

ACHILLES 

From  these  limbs 
To  strip  these  woman's  weeds.     Shall  I,  Nearchus, 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  189 

Thus  basely  pass  my  life,  my  prime  of  years? 

And  must  I  bear  it  tamely,  while  I  see 

My  threats  despised,  and,  to  complete  my  shame. 

Charged  with  a  haughty  lord's  imperious  mandate? 

I  see,  I  see  by  others'  great  example 

My  own  reproach,  nor  will  I  feel  each  moment 

The  conscious  blush — 

NEARCHUS 
The  conscious  blush! 

ACHILLES 

Be  silent! 
I've  borne  too  long  thy  counsels;  different  those 
The  sage  Thessalian  taught  ;  these  feet  could  then 
Outstrip  the  winds;  this  arm,  in  savage  wilds. 
Would  dare  the  fiercest  beast,  and  stem  the  tide 
Of  roaring  torrents.      Now,  did  Chiron  now 
Behold  his  pupil  in  these  slothful  ventures, 
Where  should  I  hide?      How  answer,  when  with  looks 
Of  stern  reproach  he  cries  :  "Where,  where,  Achilles, 
Is  now  thy  sword,  with  all  the  warrior's  arms? 
No  mark  of  Chiron's  school,  save  yonder  lyre. 
Debased  from  heroes'  praise  to  strains  inglorious." 

NEARCHUS 

Enough,  Achilles,  I  contend  no  longer, 
But  yield  to  reason's  force. 

ACHILLES 

Think'st  thou,  Nearchus, 
This  life  is  worthy  of  me? 


190  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

NEARCHUS 

No,  I  own 
The  generous  truth  ;  'tis  time  to  rouse  thy  soul 
From  drowsy  sleep;  shake  off  that  base  attire, 
And  haste  to  scenes  where  honor  calls  to  prove 
Thy  dauntless  heart.      'Tis  true  that  Deidamia, 
Deprived  of  thee,  must  taste  of  peace  no  more. 
Nay,  grief  perchance  may  waste  her  gentle  frame 
Till  friendly  death;  but  pause  not  thou,  Achilles, 
In  glory's  course;  the  triumphs  thou  shalt  gain 
May  well  outweigh  the  life  of  Deidamia. 

ACHILLES 

The  life  of  Deidamia!      Think'st  thou,  then, 
Her  constancy  will  not  support  our  parting? 

NEARCHUS 

Her  constancy?     Ah,  what  can  that  avail 
A  tender  maid  who  mourns  her  lover  lost. 
The  sole  dear  object  of  her  fondest  wishes, 
Her  comfort  and  her  hope? 

ACHILLES   (asid£) 
O  Heaven! 

NEARCHUS 

And  know'st  thou 
That  if  thou  steal'st  a  moment  from  her  sight 
A  thousand  fears  distract  her?      All  repose 
Is  banished  from  her  breast;  with  eager  warmth 
Of  each  she  meets  she  seeks  her  bosom's  lord. 
How  thinks  Achilles  now  she  brooks  his  absence? 
She  knows  no  peace,  but  trembling — 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  191 

ACHILLES 

Let  us  seek 
The  lovely  mourner. 

NEARCHUS 

Art  thou,   then,  prepared 
To  quit  the  port  of  Scyros? 

ACHILLES 

No,  Nearchus, 
No,  let  us  now  return  to  Deidamia. 

What  lover,  though  his  hardened  breast 

A  tiger's  heart  contains. 
Can  leave  his  dearest  maid  oppressed 

With  love's  afflicting  pains? 

The  pity  now  that  rends  my  soul, 

And  all  the  pangs  I  prove. 
Must  sure  a  tiger's  rage  control, 

When  tigers  yield  to  love. 


[Exit. 


Scene  Seventh 

NEARCHUS 

Oh,  miracle  of  all-commanding  love, 

Surpassing  our  belief!      When  anger  hres 

His  daring  soul,  Achilles,  terrible. 

Nor  art  nor  force  restrains;  his  fury  then 

Would  naked  rush  through  circling  fires,  and  meet 

Alone  a  thousand  foes;  but  let  him  think 

On  Deidamia  once,  the  fierce  Achilles 

Forgets  his  rage  and  softens  to  a  woman,. 


192  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

The  lion  stern,  whose  proud  disdain 
With  lordly  roar  rejects  the  chain, 
Whene'er  his  keeper's  voice  he  hears, 
At  once  subdued  his  rage  appears. 
He  yields  submission  to  command, 
And  mildly  licks  the  chastening  hand. 


Scene  Eighth 


[Exit. 


A  great  hall,  with  table  in  the  middle;  up  stage  are  ranged 
rows  of  spectators  and  numerous  musicians.  LYCOME- 
DES,  THEAGENES,  DEW  AM  I  A,  and  ULYSSES 
are  seated  at  the  table.  ARC  AS  stands  by  ULYSSES,  aiid 
ACHILLES  by  DEI  DAM  I  A.  Courtiers,  damsels,  and 
pages. 

CHORUS 

Far,  far  be  hence!  unwelcome  here, 
Intruding  thought  and  jealous  fear; 
Nor  let  a  moment's  gloom  appear 
To  cloud  this  happy,  festive  day. 

While  Love  inspires  and  Peace  invites 
Affection's  mild  and  calm  delights, 
Let  Joy,  which  rules  o'er  social  rites, 
In  every  breast  exert  full  sway. 

Far,  far  be  hence!  unwelcome  here. 
Intruding  thought  and  jealous  fear; 
Nor  let  a  moment's  gloom  appear 
To  cloud  this  happy,  festive  day  . 

LYCOMEDES 

Let  every  goblet  now  be  circled  round 
With  Cretan  wine. 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  193 

DEIDAMIA   (to  ACHILLES) 

Thou  know'st,  my  dearest  Pyrrha, 
Unless  thy  hand  should  minister  the  cup, 
That  heavenly  nectar  to  my  lips  would  prove 
A  tasteless  beverage. 

ACHILLES 

I  obey.      Ah,  judge 
From  that  obedience  if  your  Pyrrha's  heart 
Is  true  to  Deidamia! 

THEAGENES   (aside,  observes  them) 

Strange  effect 
Of  unexampled  passion! 

ACHILLES  (aside,  lifts  the  cup) 
Tyrant  love! 

LYCOMEDES 

Say,  great  Ulysses,  when  thy  country's  fleet 
Will  loose  their  anchors  from  the  Grecian  shores. 

ULYSSES 
At  my  return. 

THEAGENES 

Are  all  the  ships  assembled? 

ULYSSES 
We  only  lack  the  friendly  aids  from  Scyros. 

13 


194  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

LYCOMEDES 

Oh,  wretched,  feeble  state  of  hoary  age, 

That  keeps  me  now  from  such  a  glorious  sight! 

ULYSSES   (aside) 

This  is  the  time  for  trial.     (To  LYCOMEDES.)     Mighty 

King, 
The  thought  is  worthy  thee.     What  eyes  again 
Shall  view  such  arms,  such  leaders,  such  a  host 
Of  gallant  warriors,  countless  steeds  and  vessels, 
Spears  bristled,  banners  streaming  in  the  wind; 
All  Europe  there  assembled.     Woods  and  cities 
Are  deserts  now;  encouraged  by  their  sires. 
Their  reverend  sires,  v^rho  mourn  their  useless  age, 
Th'  impatient  youth  rush  forth  and  fly  to  arms. 
(Aside  to  ARCAS.)      Observe  him.  Areas,  now. 

(During  the  foregoing  speech,  a  page  brings  the  cup  to 
'ACHILLES,  who,  instead  of  taking  it  to  DEIDAMIA, 
stands  listening  to  ULYSSES.) 

DEIDAMIA 
Pyrrha  ! 

ACHILLES 

Forgive  me! 
My  mind  estranged  awhile — (Takes    the   cup,    then    stops 
again  to  listen.) 

ULYSSES 

None,  none  remain 
Whose  bosoms  ever  felt  the  stings  of  honor, 
Or  knew  a  wish  for  glory;  hardly  virgins 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  195 

Or  tender  brides  escape  the  general  flame  ; 
And  those  whom  hard  necessity  detains 
Rave  at  their  fate,  and  call  the  gods  unjust. 

DEIDAMIA 
What  dost  thou,  Pyrrha? 

ACHILLES 
I  attend  thy  will.      (Presents  the  cup.) 

DEIDAMIA  (aside,  taking  cup  ) 
Ingrate!     Are  these  thy  boasted  signs  of  love? 

ACHILLES  (aside) 
Be  not  displeased;  forgive  me,  Deidamia! 

LYCOMEDES 

Go,  place  the  wonted  lyre  in  Pyrrha's  hand. 
Now,  daughter,  urge  her  with  accustomed  skill 
To  raise  her  voice  and  join  the  sounding  chords; 
She  nothing  can  deny  thee. 

T>^IDAMIK  (to  ACHILLES  ) 

If  thou  lov'st  me, 
Attend  my  father's  wish. 

ACHILLES 

If  such  thy  will, 
I  shall  obey.      Oh,  tyranny  of  love! 


196  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

THEAGENES  (aside) 

I  am  bewildered  when  I  see  two  maids 
Thus  knit  in  strange  affection. 

ULYSSES  (aside  to  ARC  AS  ) 

Areas,  hear! 
Now  is  the  time — thou  know'st — 

ARCAS 

I  know  it  well.  [Exit. 

(ACHILLES  takes  the  lyre  from  a  page,  sits  near  the  table, 
and  sings  and  plays.) 

When  Love  has  firmly  bound  the  soul, 

And  bid  the  heart  obey, 
He  rules  the  will  without  control, 

And  rules  with  tyrant  sway. 

His  cruel  snares  on  every  hand 

He  spreads  alike  for  all; 
No  valor  can  his  power  withstand, 

And  wisdom's  self  must  fall. 

If  Jove,  of  gods  and  men  the  sire, 

In  snowy  plumage  dressed. 
Essayed  with  tuneful  notes  to  fire 

The  tender  Leda's  breast; 

If  once  among  the  herds  he  paced 

For  fair  Europa's  sake, 
*Twas  Love  that  thus  the  god  debased, 

Such  borrowed  forms  to  take. 

Whoe'er,  betrayed  by  woman's  smiles, 
Would  join  the  train  of  Love, 

Too  late  shall  find  his  cruel  wiles, 
And  lasting  sorrow  prove. 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  197 

The  tyrant  wills  that  every  slave 

Should  kiss  the  galling  chains, 
Should  boast  the  sufferings  Beauty  gave, 

And  glory  in  his  pains. 

(Here  the  song  is  interrupted  by  the  followers  of  ULYS- 
SES bringing  in  the  presents  for  the  King.) 

LYCOMEDES 

Say,  who  are  these? 

ULYSSES 

My  followers,  mighty  King, 
Who  humbly  lay  before  thy  royal  feet 
These  modest  presents  brought  from  Ithaca. 
Forgive  the  freedom,  if  in  these  I  offer 
Th'  accustomed  thanks  of  no  ungrateful  guest. 
If  I  presume  too  much,  my  country's  usage 
Must  plead  forgiveness  for  me. 

LYCOMEDES 

Gifts  like  these 
Speak  well  the  generous  donor. 

ACHILLES  (looks  at  the  armor) 

Heavenly  powers! 
What  do  I  see? 

LYCOMEDES  (looks  at  the  mantles) 

Not  even  in  princely  Tyre 
Did  purple  ever   glow  with  brighter  hue. 

THEAGENES   (looks  at  the  vases) 

I  ne'er  till  now  beheld  the  sculptured  vase 
So  framed  and  fashioned  by  a  master  hand. 


198  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

DEIDAMIA     (looks  at  the  jewels) 

And  never,  sure,  on  India's  wealthy  shore, 
Were  seen  such  dazzHng  gems. 

ACHILLES  (approaches  the  gifts) 

What  eyes  till  now 
Have  e'er  beheld  such  glorious,  splendid  arms? 

DEIDAMIA  (aside  to  ACHILLES  ) 

What  wouldst  thou,  Pyrrha?     Go,  resume  the  lyre, 
And  tune  again  thy  song. 

ACHILLES  (returns  to  his  seat) 
Oh,  pain  to  suffer! 

(Cry  without:  "To  arms!  To  arms!"  A  noise  is  heard 
of  amis  and  w-arlike  instruments.  All  the  guests  rise  with 
looks  of  astonisMment  and  fear,  except  ACHILLES,  who 
remains  seated,  zvith  an  intrepid  air.  Reenter  ARC  AS 
in  seeming  terror.) 

LYCOMEDES 

What  sudden  tumult's  this? 

ARCAS 

Ulysses,  haste,  and  curb  thy  followers'  fury. 

ULYSSES 
What  has  chanced? 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  199 

ARCAS 

I  know  not  why,  but  with  the  royal  guards 
They  mix  in  cruel  fight;  expect  this  moment 
To  see  a  thousand  threat'ning  falchions  drawn. 

DEIDAMIA 

Assist  me,  gods!      Oh,  whither  shall  I  fly 
To  save  me  from  their  fury?      [Runs  out. 

THEAGENES 

Princess,  stay! 
(Cry  zuitJwut:  "To  arms!  To  arms!"  LYCOMEDES 
dranvs  his  sword  and  goes  out.  A'oise  of  arms  continues. 
All  ny  hut  ULYSSES,  ARCAS  and  ACHILLES. 
ULYSSES  and  ARCAS  stand  apart  to  observe  ACHIL- 
LES, who  rises  from  his  chair  with  great  emotion.) 


Scene  Ninth 

ACHILLES,  ULYSSES,  ARCAS 

ACHILLES 

Almighty  powers!  where  am  I? 

What  did  I  hear?      Methinks  I  feel  my  hair 

Upstart  with  frenzy.      Ah,  what  cloud  is  this 

Obscures  my  sight?      What  sudden  fire  now  glows 

Within  my  bosom?      I  can  hold  no  longer — 

To  arms!     To  arms!      (Paxes  to  and  fro  with  a  furious 

air,  then  suddenly  stops  and  observes  the  lyre  still  in  his 

hand.) 

ULYSSES 
Observe  him,  Areas,  well. 


200  PIETRO  METASTASI© 

ACHILLES 

And  is  this  lyre  a  weapon  for  Achilles? 

No,  fortune  now  provides  me  nobler  arms 

More  worthy  of  me.     Hence  !  to  earth,  to  earth. 

Vile  instrument  of  shame!         (Dashes   the    lyre    on    the 

ground,  and  goes  to  the  table  to  seize  the  arms  from  the 

gifts  brought  by  ULYSSES.) 

This  hand  debased 
Shall  wield  the  ponderous  buckler's  honored  weight, 
And  this  the  gleaming  sword.     (Takes  the 
shield  and  the  sword.) 

Ah,  now  I  feel, 
I  know  myself  Achilles!      Lead  me,  gods. 
To  meet  the  glorious  labors  of  the  field, 
And  dare  with  single  force  a  thousand  foes! 

ULYSSES  (comes  forward) 

If  this  be  not  Achilles,  tell  me.  Areas, 
What  hero  shall  we  name  him? 

ACHILLES 

Heavens!  Ulysses, 
What  wouldst  thou  say? 

ULYSSES 

Exalted  youth!      Achilles! 
Offspring  of  gods  !     At  last  permit  Ulysses 
To  clasp  thee  to  his  breast.     'Tis  now  no  time 
For  vain  dissimulation;  thou  art  he, 
The  hope,  the  glory  of  exulting  Greece, 
And  Asia's  terror.      Wherefore,  then,  suppress 
The  great  emotions  of  thy  generous  heart? 
Are  they  not  worthy  of  thee?      Oh,  indulge, 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  201 

Indulge  them,  noble  youth — I  see,  I  see 

Thou  canst  no  more  disguise  them. — Come,   I'll  guide 

thee 
To  victory  and  triumph.      Greece,  in  arms, 
Awaits  but  thee,  and  Asia's  hostile  sons 
Shall  tremble  at  thy  single  name — away! 

ACHILLES 

Then  lead  me  hence,  conduct  me  where  thou  wilt, 
But  yet,  Ulysses — 

ULYSSES 

Whence  this  sudden  pause? 

ACHILLES 
And  what  of  Deidamia? 

ULYSSES 

Deidamia 
Will  see  thee  on  some  future  day  return, 
With  laurels  crowned,  more  worthy  of  her  love. 

ACHILLES 
But  while,  alas  ! — 

ULYSSES 

Yes,  while  the  earth  is  filled 
With  war's  destructive  flames,  wouldst  thou,  concealed 
From  every  eye,  here  linger  out  thy  life 
In  vile  repose?      Remotest  times  shall  tell 
How  fierce  Tydides  sapped  the  Dardan  walls; 
How  Hector  from  Idomeneus  obtained 
His  arms  and  spoils;  how  Sthenelus  and  Ajax 


202  PIETRO  METASTASI© 

Laid  Priam's  throne  in  ashes;  while  Achilles — 
What  did  Achilles? — he,  in  female  garb 
Among  the  maids  of  Scyros  dragged  his  days, 
Lulled  by  the  distant  sound  of  valiant  deeds! 
Forbid  it,  gods!     Oh,  rouse  at  length!     Efface 
This  blot  from  honor!      Oh,  permit  no  more 
That  any  eye  should  see  that  vile  disguise. 
Oh,  couldst  thou  in  thyself  behold  a  prince, 
A  v/arrior  thus  disgraced  with  all  the  mockery 
Of  woman's  trappings?      In  that  shield  reflected 
Thou  may'st  contemplate — know'st  thou  that  Achilles? 

(Points  to  the  shield.) 

ACHILLES 

O  treble  shame!     Off,  off,  ye  vile  disguises, 

Reproach  to  manhood!      (Tears  his  robes.)      How  have 

I  endured  them? 
Ulysses,  hence,  to  sheathe  these  limbs  in  arms, 
Nor  let  me  longer  pine  in  sham^eful  bonds. 

ULYSSES 
Follow  me,  then.      (Aside.)      The  day  at  last  is  ours! 

Scene  Tenth 
NEARCHUS  (enters  suddenly) 

NEARCHUS 
Where  goest  thou,  Pyrrha?     Pyrrha! 

ACHILLES  (about  to  go,  turns  ) 

O  base  one! 
Let  not  that  name  again  escape  thy  lips, 
Nor  dare  henceforth  remind  me  of  my  shame. 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  203 

NEARCHUS 
Hear  me!     Wilt  thou  thus  depart?     Thy  Princess— 

ACHILLES 
Tell  her  from  me — 

ULYSSES 

Achilles,  let  us  go. 

NEARCHUS 
What  can  I  say  from  thee  to  Deidamia? 

ACHILLES 

Oh,  tell  her,  midst  her  cruel  woes. 
To  love  me  still,  nor  vainly  mourn; 

To  her  Achilles  constant  goes, 
And  constant  will  to  her  return. 

Tell  her  those  lovely  eyes  alone 
Shall  ever  rule  my  faithful  heart; 

She  ever  there  maintained  her  throne, 
And  thence  she  never  shall  depart. 

[Exit  with  ULYSSES, 

Scene  Eleventh 
NEARCHUS 

Eternal  powers!  what  sudden  storm  has  wrecked 
My  dearest  hopes?     And,  should  Achilles  go. 
Where  shall  I  fly?     Ah,  who  will  save  me  then 
From  angry  Thetis?     After  years  of  care, 
Such  toils,  such  watchings,  every  art  employed! 
Oh,  heavens! 


204  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

Scene  Twelfth 

NEARCHUS,  DEIDAMIA 

DEIDAMIA 

Where  is  he?  lead  me,  lead  me  to  him! 
Where  is  my  life,  my  love? 

NEARCHUS 

Ah,  Deidamia 
Achilles  is  no  longer  thine! 

DEIDAMIA 

Nearchus, 
What  mean  thy  fatal  words? 

NEARCHUS 

Alas!  my  Princess, 
He  leaves  you,  he  forsakes  you. 

DEIDAMIA 

Oft  before 
Thy  vain  suspicions  have  alarmed  my  fears. 

NEARCHUS 

Would  I  were  still  deceived  !  Alas  !  Ulysses 
Has  now  discovered  all;  has  found  Achilles, 
And  forced  him  hence. 

DEIDAMIA 

And  could'st  thou  thus,  Nearchus, 
Permit  him  to  depart?      Oh,  haste!  pursue  him! 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  205 

Ah,  wretched  Deidamia!     Hear  me  yet. 

This  stroke  indeed  is  death!     Why  dost  thou  tarry? 

Did  I  not  send  thee  hence? 

NEARCHUS 

I  go,  my  Princess, 
But  all,  I  fear,  in  vain.  [Exit. 


Scene  Thirteenth 

DEIDAMIA 

Achilles  leaves  me! 
Achilles  then  forsakes  me!      Ah,  ingrate! 
And  could  he  harbor  such  a  thought  and  live? 
Is  this  his  promised  faith?      Are  these  the  fruits 
Of  long-protesting  love?      But  while  I  rave 
In  fond  complaints,  the  traitor  spreads  his  sails. 
Oh,  let  me  haste  to  stop  his  treacherous  flight. 
My  sorrow  knows  no  bounds.     Away  !    Should  all 
Avail  me  nothing,  let  the  perjured  man 
See  Deidamia  on  the  shore  expire. 
Then  sail  in  triumph  from  the  port  of  Scyros. 


Scene  Fourteenth 
DEIDAMIA,  THEAGENES 
THEAGENES 
O   Princess  most  beloved — 

DEIDAMIA  (aside) 

Ill-timed  intrusion, 
To  break  on  my  distraction! 


206  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

THEAGENES 

Ah,  permit  me 
To  learn  the  soft  emotions  of  thy  heart; 
If  yet  thy  love^ — 

DEIDAMIA 

It  is  not  now  a  time 
To  talk  of  love. 

THEAGENES 
Yet  hear  me. 

DEIDAMIA 
Oh,  forbear! 

THEAGENES 
But  for  a  moment! 

DEIDAMIA  (impatient  ) 
O  immortal  powers! 

THEAGENES 
At  last,  my  plighted  bride,  at  early  day— 

DEIDAMIA 

For  pity's  sake,  distract  me  now  no  more? 

See'st  thou  not,  cruel,  how,  distressed, 
A  thousand  torments  rend  my  breast, 
That  all  I  ask  is  lasting  rest. 
Which  only  death  can  give? 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  207 

And  see'st  thou  not  my  tortured  mind 
Detests  itself,  detests  mankind, 
And  longer  loathes  to  live?  [Exit. 

Scene  Fifteenth 
THEAGENES 

Mysterious  all!      What  wisdom  can  explain 
The  wonders  of  this  day?     What  means  the  Princess? 
What  can  her  words  import?     She  surely  raves, 
Or  seeks  to  shake  my  reason.      Do  I  dream? 
Wake,  wake.     Theagenes  !     How  art  thou  lost, 
Without  a  clue  to  tread  this  various  maze! 

Did  she  in  truth  or  sportive  strain 

Address  my  wondering  ear? 
I  seek  to  read  her  sense  in  vain, 

And  doubt  of  all  I  hear. 

By  sympathy,  in  sorrow  joined, 

We  others'  sighs  partake. 
Then  sure  another's  frantic  mind 

In  ours  may  frenzy  wake. 


ACT     III 

Scene  First 

Porticoes  of  the  palace  looking  out  upon  the  sea.   Ships  near 
the  shore. 

ULYSSES,  ACHILLES  (in  a  military  dress  ) 

ULYSSES 

Achilles,  I  confess  the  hero  now; 

I  see  thee  all  thyself.     Oh,  how  the  dress 


208  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

Of  woman's  weeds  obscured  thy  godlike  mien! 
Behold  the  warrior  now!      The  serpent  thus 
Forth  issues  to  the  sun,  with  youth  renewed, 
And  as  he  rides  on  golden  spires,  or  trails 
His  lengthened  curls,  rejoices  in  his  strength. 

ACHILLES 

To  thee,  O  mighty  chief,  Achilles  owes 
A  life  restored  :  but  like  a  captive  scarce 
Released  from  bonds,  I  doubt  my  freedom  still; 
Still  seem  to  view  the  dungeon's  dreary  gloom. 
And  hear  the  clanking  of  inglorious  chains. 

ULYSSES  (looks  out  ) 
Why  comes  not  Areas  yet?      (Aside.) 

ACHILLES 

Are  these,  Ulysses, 
Thy  ships  that  sailed  from  Greece? 

ULYSSES 

They  are;  nor  less 
Will  these  with  pride  exult,  than  Argo  once. 
To  bear  their  glorious  burden,  while  Achilles 
Can  singly  weigh  against  that  band  of  heroes, 
And  all  the  treasures  brought  from  Phryxus'  shore. 

ACHILLES 
Then  wherefore  this  delay? 

ULYSSES 

Ho!  mariners. 
Approach  the  land  !    (Aside.)    And  yet  I  see  not  Areas. 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  209 

ACHILLES 

Why  are  not  these  Scamander's  hostile  shores? 
There,  there  it  shall  be  known  how  soon  Achilles 
Will  cancel  every  fault,  when  glorious  toils 
Of  fighting  fields  shall  wash  my  stains  away. 
This  sword  shall  plead  forgiveness  for  the  hours, 
The  slothful  hours  of  Scyros;  then,  perhaps, 
My  trophies  gained  may  swell  the  trump  of  fame, 
And  leave  no  time  to  blaze  my  follies  past. 

ULYSSES 

Oh,  glorious  warmth!     Oh,  godlike  sense  of  shame! 

That  well  befits  Achilles.      Never,  never 

Such  virtue  could  be  hid  from  human  kind, 

And  buried  in  the  narrow  bounds  of  Scyros. 

Too  far,  O  Thetis!  thy  maternal  fears 

Betrayed  thy  better  sense;  thou  might'st  have  known 

That  here  to  keep  concealed  so  fierce  a  flame. 

All  arts  were  vain  and  every  labor  fruitless. 

Enclosed  in  earth's  capacious  caves, 
A  smothered  fire  indignant  raves, 

And  bursts  at  length  its  narrow  bound; 
Proud  cities,  woods,  destroys  and  burns. 
And  forests  shakes,  and  hills  o'erturns, 

And  spreads  a  ghastly  ruin  round. 

ACHILLES 

Behold  the  vessels  now  approach  the  shore! 
Ulysses,  follow  me!      (Approaches  tJw  sea.) 


210  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

Scene  Second 

ULYSSES   (aside  to  ARCAS,  wìw  enters  hastily) 

Areas,  what  means 
Thy  long  delay? 

ARCAS 

Let  us  with  speed  embark 
Lest  aught  obstruct  our  purpose. 

ULYSSES 
Say  what  mean'st  thou? 

ARCAS 
Depart,  depart,  and  thou  shalt  learn  it  all. 

ULYSSES 
Give  me  at  least  some  token. 

ARCAS 

Deidamia, 
Wild  with  her  love,  and  blinded  with  her  rage, 
Pursues  our  steps:  I  could  no  longer  stay  her, 
And  flew  before  to  bear  the  unwelcome  tidings. 

ULYSSES 
This  dangerous  meeting  must  not  be,  my  Areas. 

ACHILLES  (returning,  impatient) 
Why  do  we  linger  thus? 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  211 

ULYSSES 
Behold  me  ready! 

ACHILLES  (to  ARC  AS  ) 
What  cause  disturbs  thee  thus?     Speak,  Areas. 

ARCAS 
Nothing  ! 

ULYSSES 
Let  us  depart. 

ACHILLES  (to  ARCAS  ) 

What  mean  those  frequent  looks 
Cast  back  with  anxious  search?       What  fear'st  thou? 
Speak  ! 

ULYSSES  (aside) 
O,  mighty  gods  ! 

ARCAS  (to  ACHILLES) 

My  Lord,  I  fear,  perhaps — 
The  King  perhaps  may  hear  of  our  departure, 
And  seek  by  force  to  stay  us. 

ACHILLES 

Seek  by  force? 
Am  I  his  prisoner  then,  and  would  he  thus — 

ULYSSES 

No,  but  'tis  prudent  we  should  fly  from  all 
That  might  detain  us. 

14 


212  PIETRO  METASTASI© 

ACHILLES 
Shall  Achilles  fly? 

ULYSSES 

Let  us  not  waste  the  time  in.  vain  delays. 
Haste  to  the  sea;  the  winds  and  waves  invite  us. 

(Takes  ACHILLES  by  the  hand,  and  goes  with  him  toward 
the  seashore.) 

Scene  Third 

DEIDAMIA  (enters) 

Ah!  whither,  whither  goest  thou,  O  Achilles? 

Yet  stay  and  hear  me! 

(ACHILLES    turns   and    sees   DEIDAMIA;    both   remain 

some  time  silent.) 

ULYSSES   (aside) 

Now  indeed  I  fear. 

ARCAS  (aside) 
Behold  where  love  and  glory  both  contend. 

DEIDAMIA 

Inhuman  man!  and  is  it  possible? 
Could'st  thou  then  leave  me? 

ULYSSES  (aside  to  ACHILLES) 

If  thou  mak'st  reply 
Thou  art  vanquished. 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  213 

ACHILLES  (to  ULYSSES) 

Fear  me  not;  whate'er  my  feelings, 
I'll  struggle  to  suppress  them. 

DEIDAMIA 

Such  reward, 
O  cruel!  dost  thou  yield  for  love  like  mine? 
Could  such  a  form  conceal  a  treacherous  heart? 
Learn  hence,  too  easy  maidens,  learn  from  him, 
To  trust  a  lover's  faith!      Even  now  he  swore 
Eternal  constancy,  and  in  a  moment 
Forgets  it  all — departs,  forsakes  me  thus, 
Without  one  tender  sigh,  one  last  adieu. 

ACHILLES  (aside) 
My  breaking  heart  ! 

ARCAS  (aside) 
He  melts  ! 

DEIDAMIA 

What  cause  could  make  thee 
At  once  my  foe?      Alas!  what  have  I  done? 
What  crime  of  mine  can  merit  thus   thy  hatred? 

ACHILLES 

No,  Princess,  no! 

ULYSSES 
Achilles — 


214  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

ACHILLES  (to  ULYSSES) 

But  one  word! 
I  ask  no  more. 

ULYSSES  {aside) 

Then  all  is  lost. 

ACHILLES  (to  DEW  AMI  A  ) 

No,  Princess, 
Believe  me  not  a  traitor  or  thy  foe; 
Eternal  truth  I've  sworn  and  I  will  keep  it. 
The  rigid  laws  of  honor  tear  me  from  thee; 
But  I'll  return  more  worthy  of  thy  love. 
If  silent  I  depart,  think  not  my  silence 
Was  scorn  or  hatred:     Oh,  'twas  fear  and  pity. 
Pity  for  thee,  a  prey  to  tender  sorrow. 
And  fear  that  constancy  in  me  would  prove 
Unequal  to  the  task.      The  first,  alas! 
I  well  foresaw,  the  last  I  dared  not  trust. 
I  know  thou  lov'st  me  dearer  than  thy  life, 
And  well  I  know — 

ULYSSES 
Achilles  ! 

ACHILLES 

See  me  here 
Prepared  to  quit  the  port. 

ARCAS  (aside) 
And  yet  he  comes  not! 

ACHILLES  (to  DEW  AMI  A  ) 
Still  in  my  breast — 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  215 

DEIDAMIA 

No  more!  'tis  now  too  late. 
Forgive  my  transports  to  excess  of  love. 
'Tis  true,  Achilles  owes  himself  to  Greece, 
To  all  the  world,  and  to  his  own  renown. 
Then  go!      No  longer  I  oppose  thy  purpose; 
My  heart's  affection  shall  attend  thee  still; 
But  since  I  here  without  thee  must  remain, 
Oh,  be  the  stroke  less  dreadful — leave  me  not 
Thus  unprepared:  allow  my  feeble  virtue 
Some  time  for  recollection — but  one  day — 
I  ask  no  more;  go,  then,  depart  in  peace. 
Such  grace  is  not  denied  a  wretch  condemned 
To  meet  his  death  ;  and  can  I  doubt  Achilles 
Will  now  refuse  this  grant  to  Deidamia? 

ARCAS  (aside) 
If  she  obtain  a  day  she  conquers  all. 

DEIDAMIA 

Ah,  think!     Ah,  speak!  thy  downcast  eyes  are  fixed 
In  pensive  silence  still. 

ACHILLES  (to  ULYSSES) 
What  says  Ulysses? 

ULYSSES 

*Tis  at  thy  choice,  Achilles,  to  depart, 
Or  here  abide;  to  me  is  not  permitted 
A  longer  tarriance  here.      Resolve  to  quit 
The  port,  or  leave  me  to  embark  alone. 


216  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

ACHILLES 
Oh,  cruel  state! 

DEIDAMIA 

Yet  answer  me,  Achilles. 

ACHILLES 

Fain  would  I  stay  in  pity  to  thy  grief. 

But  heard'st  thou  not  Ulysses?     (Points  to  ULYSSES.) 

ULYSSES 
Come,  decide! 

ACHILLES  (to  ULYSSES) 

I  would  pursue  thy  steps,  but  see'st  thou  not 

Who  pleads  against  thee?      (Points  to  DEIDAMIA.) 

DEIDAMIA 

'Tis  enough  !  I  see 
Thy  choice  is  made  and  thou  preparest  to  leave  me. 
Go  then,  ungrateful  man  !      Farewell  forever.     (Going  ) 

ACHILLES   (follozvs  her) 

Stay,  Deidamia! 

ULYSSES 

I  perceive,  Achilles, 
Thy  purpose  to  remain.      Irresolute, 
Degenerate  youth!      I  leave  thee  and  depart.      (Going.) 

ACHILLES 

Ulysses,  stay! 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  217 

DEIDAMIA  (to  ACHILLES) 
What  would'st  thou? 

ULYSSES 

Whither  tends 
Thy  purpose  now? 

ACHILLES 

I  would,  my  Deidamia, 
Indulge  thy  wish.  (Aside.)     O  Heaven!  what  means  this 

weakness? 
To  thee,  Ulysses,  would  I  yield  my  guidance. 
(Aside.)    But  this  were  surely  cruel.      If  my  glory 
Exact  obedience  here,  there  love  denies  it. 

ARCAS  (aside) 
'Tis  doubtful  which  will  conquer. 

DEIDAMIA 

Since  to  grant  me 
So  light  a  boon  excites  such  painful  struggles, 
I  press  no  further,  yet  one  grace  I  ask 
More  worthy  thee  :  depart,  but  ere  thou  goest. 
Deep  in  my  bosom  plunge  thy  glorious  sword, 
This  will  avail  us  both,  for  thou,  Achilles, 
Wilt  thus  begin  to  inure  thy  soul  tO'  slaughter, 
And  Deidamia  shun  a  lingering  death. 
So  may'st  thou  gladly  go,  and  go  unquestioned. 
I  die  content,  if  he,  whom  still  my  heart 
Must  ever  love,  dear  master  of  my  fate, 
If  he,  alas!  who  has  refused  me  life. 
At  least  in  pity  thus  concludes  my  woes.     (Weeps.) 


218  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

ARCAS  (aside) 
Were  I  Achilles  I  could  hold  no  longer. 

DEIDAMIA 

Thy  last,  best  gift— 

ACHILLES 

Ah,  cease!  lament  no  more! 
Ulysses,  longer  to  reject  her  suit 
Were  useless  cruelty. 

ULYSSES 
So  thinks  Achilles. 

ACHILLES 

She  asks  but  for  a  day;  a  single  day 
May  surely  be  indulged  me. 

ULYSSES 

Not  a  day. 
I  go  to  tell  the  assembled  Argive  chiefs 
The  glories  of  Achilles  ;  yes,  from  me 
Each  ear  may  learn  what  generous  toils  have  cleansed 
His  fame  ;  what  great  amends  his  sword  has  made 
For  all  his  sloth  at  Scyros,  and  by  him 
What  numerous  trophies  fill  the  mouth  of  fame. 

ACHILLES 
But  valor  loves  not — 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  219 

ULYSSES 

Talk  not   of  valor. 
Strip  off  those  arms,  a  useless  load  for  Pyrrha. 
What  ho!  bring  forth  the  hero's  silken  robes, 
And  let  him  rest  awhile;  his  fainting  brows 
Enough  have  felt  the  helmet's  massy  weight. 

ARCAS  (aside) 

How  well  Ulysses  proves  his  every  art 
To  rouse  the  latent  hero! 

ACHILLES  (to  ULYSSES) 

Am  I  Pyrrha? 
To  me  the  silken  robes? 

ULYSSES 

Oh,  no!     Thou  givest 
Great  proofs  of  manly  mind:  thou  canst  not  conquer 
One  weak,  one  poor  affection. 

ACHILLES   (firmly) 

Better  learn 
To  know  Achilles.     Let  us  go. 

DEIDAMIA 

Achilles  ! 
And  wilt  thou  leave  me? 

ACHILLES 

Strong  necessity 


Compels  me. 


220  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

DEIDAMIA 
Sayest  thou? 

ACHILLES 

Longer  to  remain 
Were  fatal  to  my  honor — Deidamia, 
Farewell!    (Goes  resolutely  to  the  ship;  is  about  to  ascend  the 
deck,  then  stops.     ULYSSES  and  ARC  AS  follow.    DEI- 
DAMIA stands  some  time  immovable.) 

ARCAS  (aside) 

Ulysses'  taunts  at  length  have  roused 
His  sleeping  honor. 

ULYSSES   {aside) 
Yet  we  are  not  secure. 

DEIDAMIA 

Barbarian!  Traitor!  wilt  thou  then  be  gone? 

Is  this  a  lover's  parting?     Tyranny 

Beyond  example!      Hence  thou  flyest  from  me, 

But  thou  shall  not  fly  from  Heaven.     If  gods  are  just, 

And  pity  human  sufferings,  all  will  join 

To  punish  thy  misdeeds;  my  injured  ghost 

Shall  haunt  thy  sight  and  witness  my  revenge. 

Already  now  my  soul  enjoys  the  thought! 

I  see  the  lightnings  flash.     Oh,  no,  forbear, 

Vindictive  powers!     If  one  must  pay  the  forfeit, 

Oh,  spare  that  breast  beloved  and  strike  at  mine! 

If  cruel  he  has  changed  his  former  self. 

Yet  Deidamia's  heart  is  still  the  same: 

For  him  I  lived,  for  him  I  now  will  die!  (Faints.) 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  221 

ACHILLES  (to  ULYSSES) 

Ah,  let  me  fly! 

ULYSSES 

And  whither  would  Achilles? 

ACHILLES 
To  save  my  Deidamia. 

ULYSSES 
Then  no  longer^ 

ACHILLES 
And  canst  thou  hope  that  I  will  leave  her  thus? 

ULYSSES 
Are  these  thy  proofs  of  valor? 

ACHILLES   (in  anger) 

Thou  wouldst  ask 
For  proofs  of  valor,  proofs  of  cruelty. 
Ulysses,   give   me  way!     (Breaks  from  him  and  runs  to 
DEIDAMIA.) 

ARC  AS  (aside) 
Then  love  has  conquered. 

ACHILLES 

My  life  !  my  Princess  !  Hear  me,  mighty  gods  ! 
She  answers  not  ! — lift  up  those  lovely  eyes, 
Behold,  behold  thy  own  Achilles  here. 


222  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

ULYSSES 

I  fear,  my  Areas,  'tis  not  now  a  time 

To  hope  for  victory  ;  we  must  resign 

The  palm,  and  seek  the  field  with  other  arms. 

[Exit  with  ARC  AS,  unseen  by  ACHILLES. 

Scene  Fourth 
DEIDAMIA,  ACHILLES 
DEIDAMIA  (recovering  ) 

ACHILLES 

The  gods  be  praised  !  she  breathes  again. 

Oh,  no,  my  hope!   Achilles  will  not  leave  thee. 

DEIDAMIA 

Art  thou  indeed  Achilles?     Sure  I  dream! 
What  wouldst  thou  now? 

ACHILLES 
All  peace  to  thee,  my  love. 

DEIDAMIA 

Couldst  thou,  unkind,  refuse  a  single  day? 
And  now  thou  comest— 

ACHILLES 

It  was  not  I  opposed 
Thy  gentle  wish — ^behold  thy  foe!     But,  ha! 
What  can  this  mean?     Ulysses  is  not  here! 
He  leaves  me  then. 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  223 

Scene  Fifth 

NEARCHUS  (enters) 

If  you  would  find  Ulysses, 
He  seeks  the  King,  and  with  his  sanction  means 
To  bear  you,  thus  discovered,  to  his  ships. 

DEIDAMIA 

This  only  wanted  to  complete  my  sufferings. 
All  must  be  then  revealed  to  Lycomedes. 

NEARCHUS 

Believe  not  now  your  secret  first  disclosed. 
Theagenes,  alarmed  at  your  distraction. 
Soon  found  the  cause,  and  hasted  to  the  King, 
Who  holds  him  now  in  converse. 

DEIDAMIA 

0  ye  Powers! 
Unhappy  Deidamia!  what  has  fate 

In  store?     If  you,  Achilles,  should  forsake  me, 
Where  shall  I  fly  for  pity? 

ACHILLES 

1  forsake  thee 

In  such  a  trial!     No,  my  first  exploit 

Would  then  be  impious  treason.     Calm  thy  fears. 

And  trust  to  me  thy  fortune  and  my  own. 

May  heavenly  powers  thy  peace  redeem, 

And  give  thy  tears  relief; 
And  hope,  like  summer  meteors,  stream 
Through  transient  clouds  of  grief. 


224  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

Those  eyes  shall  point  their  guiding  ray 
In  love  and  honor's  course; 

'Tis  they  that  give  and  take  away 
My  courage  and  my  force. 


[Exit. 


Scene  Sixth 

DEIDAMIA,  NEARCHUS 

DEIDAMIA 
Support  me,  oh,  Nearchus,  give  me  comfort  ! 

NEARCHUS 

Alas!  what  comfort  can  I  give,  oppressed 
With  doubts  and  terrors  that  exceed  thy  own? 

DEIDAMIA 

Ye  pitying  gods  !  if  my  affections  ever 

Were  innocent  and  pure,  do  thou  protect  me! 

Dispel  the  cloud  that  wraps  me  thus  in  darkness. 

If  love's  a  crime,  I  must  confess  I  erred; 

If  love  like  mine  be  guilt — I  loved  Achilles. 

Let  all,  who  now  my  passion  blame, 

Those  manly  beauties  trace  ; 
And  learn,  what  best  defends  my  fame, 

From  that  enchanting  face. 

That  face,  which  seems  by  Heaven  designed 

To  kindle  Love's  alarms, 
Bespeaks  no  less  a  hero's  mind 

To  dare  the  field  in  arms. 

[Exit. 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  225 

Scene  Seventh 

NEARCHUS 

Go,  go,  Nearchus,  now,  and  proudly  triumph 
In  all  thy  prosperous  cares  ;  to  Thetis  tell 
How  arts  like  thine  could  tame  the  fierce  Achilles. 
Boast  every  studied  speech  of  fawning  flattery, 
And  all  thy  soothing  phrase  of  timid  counsels. 
Lo!  how  thy  hopes  are  crushed.      Ulysses  singly 
Has  baffled  every  plan.     What  stars  averse 
Could  send  this  crafty  Greek  to  Scyros'  shore? 

I  yield  to  fate,  my  hopes  are  crossed; 
My  strength  is  gone,  my  courage  lost: 
Against  me  winds  and  waves  prevail  ; 
My  oars  are  broke  and  rent  my  sail, 
And  nought  remains  my  bark  to  guide, 
That  floats  at  random  down  the  tide. 

[Exit. 

Scene  Eighth 

The  Palace 

LYCOMEDES,     ACHILLES,      THEAGENES,     AT- 
TENDANTS 

ACHILLES 

And  does  not  Lj^comedes  deign  to  answer 
When  thus  Achilles  sues? 

THEAGENES 

Great  King,  what  means 
This  doubtful  silence?     Yield,  oh,  yield  at  length 
To  my  request,  and  to  Achilles'  wishes. 
Why  do  you  pause?     Perhaps  your  mind  revolves 


226  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

The  promise  given  to  me  ;  but  think  not,  sir, 

Theagenes  so  weighs  his  little  merits 

Against  such  nuptials.      Well  I  know  from  these 

What  earth  and  heaven  expect.      The  gods  themselves 

Have  framed  this  union:     Fate  could  never  weave 

Such  strange  events  but  for  mysterious  ends. 

Does  love  offend  you?     In  a  virtuous  bosom 

Can  love  be  guilt?     Perhaps  your  mind  revolts 

Fromi  such  a  fraud  ;  but  Thetis  here  is  guilty, 

And  Thetis  now  is  punished.     Thus  attired, 

She  hoped  from  every  eye  to  hide  her  son, 

And  made  him  known  to  all.     These  spousal  rites 

Will  glad  the  exulting  earth,  that  ne'er  till  now 

Beheld  such  valor,  worth  and  beauty  joined. 

On  these  what  favoring  grace  will  Heaven  bestow. 

Both  sprung  from  heavenly  seed  !  What  sons  from  these 

Our  hopes  may  form,  when  Lycomedes,  you, 

And  you,  Achilles,  boast  for  ancestry 

A  countless  line  of  heroes? 

Scene  Ninth 

Enter  ULYSSES 

ACHILLES 

Oh,  come,  Ulysses,  thou  perhaps  hast  heard 
Achilles'  happiness. 

ULYSSES 

Far  other  cares 
Have  brought  me  hither.     (To  LYCOMEDES.)  Mighty 

King,  it  now 
Imports  that  all  disguise  be  cast  aside. 
I  must  at  length  declare  the  will  of  Greece. 
Know,  then — 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  227 

LYCOMEDES 

Already  it  is  known,  Ulysses, 
And  every  part  shall  meet  a  fair  reply. 

Scene  Tenth 

DEIDAIMIA  (enters,  attended) 

ACHILLES  (meets  DEIDAMIA  ) 

Oh,  dearest,  best  beloved  !  and  art  thou  come 
To  bless  these  eyes?      Did  I  not  tell  thee,  sweet, 
That  still  for  us  propitious  fate  would  smile? 

DEIDAMIA  (kneels  to  LYCOMEDES  ) 
My  King,  my  father,  prostrate  at  your  feet — 

LYCOMEDES 

Rise,  Deidamia,  'twere  superfluous  now 
To  hear  thee  further.     I  already  know 
The  high  decrees  of  Heaven.     With  me  it  rests 
To  end  a  mighty  contest      Hear,  my  daughter; 
Glory  and  Love  with  rival  power  contend 
To  usurp  their  empire  o'er  Achilles'  heart. 
This  seeks  to  make  it  but  the  gentle  seat 
Of  soft  affections.     That  would  banish  all 
But  martial  ardors,  both  alike  unjust 
In  either  claim.     Declare,  even  thou,  Ulysses, 
What  were  our  hero's  praise,  to  breathe  alone 
Fury  and  wrath?     And  say,  my  Deidamia, 
What  were  Achilles  should  he  languish  ever 
In  love's  enfeebling  cares?     No,  let  him  go 
To  where  the  trumpet's  noble  call  invites  him, 
But  let  him  go  thy  husband  ;  to  thy  arms 

16 


228  PIETRO  METASTASIO 

Again  returning,  graced  with  glorious  wreaths, 
Repose  shall  thus  relieve  the  toils  of  honor, 
The  toils  of  honor  dignify  repose. 

ACHILLES 

What  says  my  Deidamia?     Speak!  What  says 
The  sage  Ulysses? 

DEIDAMIA 

When  a  father  wills, 
No  voice  has  Deidamia. 

ULYSSES 

Greece,  O  King, 
Shall  hear  and  shall  applaud  your  wise  decree 

ACHILLES 

Then  nothing  more  remains  to  crown  our  bliss. 

THEAGENES 

Let  now  these  bands,  by  either  long  desired, 
Unite  the  illustrious  pair,  while  Love  and  Glory 
Henceforth  are  one,  and  join  in  lasting  peace. 

CHORUS 

Behold,  behold  the  happy  pair! 
Descending  soft  through  yielding  air, 
Where  Hymen  shows  his  torch  from  far. 
His  purple  veil  expands. 

Behold  the  god  with  smiles  sustain 
The  links  that  frame  the  marriage  chain, 
For  you,  on  heaven's  ethereal  plain, 
Prepared  by  heavenly  hands. 


ACHILLES  IN  SCYROS  229 

DEIDAMIA  (aside) 

Could  I  ever 

Have  hoped  Theagenes  to  plead  my  cause? 

LYCOMEDES 

Achilles,  yes,  a  name  so  great  as  thine 

Engrosses  all  my  thoughts.     What  can  I  answer 

To  nuptials  so  desired?     Theagenes 

With  generous  zeal  approves,   and   Heaven   commands 

them. 
Thou  askest  her  hand,  Achilles,  and  a  father 
Confirms  the  grant.     With  wonder  I  contemplate 
Such  strange  adventures,  and,  in  these,  respectful 
Adore  the  wisdom  of  the  immortal  powers. 

ACHILLES 

Ah,  Lycomedes,  ah,  Theagenes! 

Oh,  fly  and  hasten  hither  to  my  sight, 

My  love,  my  plighted  bride!     Ah,  Prince,  to  thee 

What  does  Achilles  owe?     My  Lord,  my  father, 

How  shall  my  soul  with  gratitude  repay 

This  precious  gift? 

LYCOMEDES 

Enough  for  Lycomedes 
To  be  the  father  of  a  son  like  thee. 

Since  thou  art  mine,  let  Fortune  deal 

The  worst  a  mortal  fears  ; 
I  scorn  each  foe,  and  less  I  feel 

The  weight  of  drooping  years. 

Thus  he    that  on  some  ancient  tree 

Engrafts  a  tender  shoot. 
Shall  springing  green  and  blossoms  see 

Adorn  the  wasting  root. 


THE  GUILTY   BRACELET 

AND 

STOLEN   FRUIT 

BY 
CARLO  GOZZI 
TRANSLATED  BY  THOMAS  ROSCOE 


231 


INTRODUCTION 

COUNT  CARLO  GOZZI  was  born  in  Venice 
about  1720.  Poverty  drove  him  into  the  army, 
and  after  three  years  of  military  service  he  re- 
turned to  his  native  city  and  became  noted 
among  the  wits  of  the  Granalleschi  Society,  which  was 
what  we  should  now  call  a  semi-Bohemian  organization. 
He  wrote  poems,  farces,  and  burlesques,  and  fiercely  sat- 
irized Goldoni  in  La  tartana  degli  influssi  per  l'anno  bissestile 
1757,  which  brought  him  into  general  notice.  His  lighter 
dramas  were  very  popular,  especially  the  fairy  plays,  and 
Schiller  adapted  one  of  them,  Tiirandotc,  to  the  German 
stage.  Later  he  produced  tragedies  and  stories  and  pub- 
lished an  autobiography.  To  the  latter  he  gave  the  play- 
ful title  of  Memorie  inutili  della  vita  di  Carlo  Gozzi  ("Use- 
less Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  Carlo  Gozzi.")  His  plays  ap- 
peared in  a  complete  edition,  in  twelve  volumes,  in  1791, 
which  Werthes  translated  into  German  four  years  later, 
and  ten  years  later  still  Streckfuss  published  a  German 
version  of  his  fairy  tales.     He  died  in  1806. 

Gozzi  had  a  brother,  Gaspare,  who  wrote  much  in 
prose  and  poetry,  and  whose  most  successful  work  was 
a  periodical  entitled  L'Osservatore  veneto. 


233 


m 


THE  GUILTY  BRACELET 

ESSER  GHERARDO  BENVENGA  was  a 
Venetian  silk-mercer,  a  very  pleasant  and 
good  kind  of  man,  and  as  creditable  as  you 
would  wish  to  find  any  tradesman.  Rising 
early,  as  usual,  one  Sunday  morning,  that  being  the  day 
he  had  fixed  upon,  to  save  time,  for  the  payment  of  the 
half  year's  rent  of  his  shop,  he  was  no  sooner  washed 
and  dressed  then  he  counted  out  the  money. 

"First  of  all,"  he  said,  "I  will  go  to  mass,  after  putting 
these  ten  sequins  in  my  purse,  and  when  I  have  heard 
mass,  I  will  just  step  over  and  despatch  this  other  little 
affair." 

He  had  no  sooner  said  it  than  he  snatched  up  his 
mantle,  crossed  himself  devoutly,  and  sallied  forth.  Pass- 
ing along  near  the  church,  he  heard,  by  the  tinkling  of  a 
little  bell,  that  the  mass  was  going  out. 

"Oh,"  he  cried,  "it  is  going,  full  of  unction." 

So  he  hastened  into  the  church,  touched  the  holy  water, 
and  approached  the  altar  where  the  priest  pronounced 
the  introido.  He  knelt  upon  a  form,  where  was  no  other 
person  except  a  very  pleasing  and  good-natured  looking 
lady,  adorned  in  the  Venetian  fashion,  with  a  Florentine 
petticoat  and  a  black  silk  vest,  apparently  just  from  the 
mercer's,  trimmed  with  sleeves  of  the  finest  lace,  along 
with  gold  rings,  bracelets  of  the  richest  chain  gold,  and  a 

235 


236  CARLO  GOZZI 

necklace  set  with  beautiful  diamonds,  while,  full  of  de- 
votion and  modesty,  she  held  a  very  prettily  bound  book, 
from  which  she  was  singing  hymns  like  an  angel. 
Messer  Gherardo  turned  his  eyes  toward  her  a  few  mo- 
ments, anxious  to  profit  by  so  lovely  and  edifying  an  ex- 
ample, without  the  least  alloy  of  any  more  terrestrial 
feeling,  and  accordingly  drew  a  little  psalter  from  his 
pocket,  and  began,  quite  absorbed  within  himself,  and 
shaking  his  head  with  emotion,  to  join  in  the  anthem. 

The  mass  being  over,  Messer  Gherardo  bethought  him- 
self, according  to  courteous  custom,  of  making  a  chaste 
obeisance  to  the  lady;  but  while  he  was  preparing,  she 
passed,  and  he  followed,  marveling  in  what  manner  she 
would  have  returned  his  intended  civility.  On  getting 
out,  he  instinctively  took  the  road  to  pay  his  ten  pieces 
to  the  landlord,  an  agent  for  one  of  the  noble  Morosini 
family,  and  knocking  at  the  door,  he  said: 

"I  am  come  here  to  pay  money  as  usual,  but  you  have 
never  yet  returned  my  calls  to  pay  me  anything;  come 
and  look  at  my  shop  some  day"  ;  and  in  this  jocular  strain 
he  thrust  his  hand  into  his  purse,  feeling  on  all  sides 
without  finding  a  single  sequin. 

"Am  I  out  of  my  wits?"  he  cried.  "What  is  this?"  and 
he  rolled  his  eyes  like  a  demoniac,  as  if  under  the  opera- 
tion of  the  bitterest  torments. 

At  last,  feeling  something  hard  sticking  in  a  corner  of 
his  purse,  and  hastily  seizing  it,  he  drew  forth  a  beautiful 
bracelet  of  fine  gold  with  diamond  clasps,  to  the  value  of 
about  two  hundred  ducats.  The  poor  tradesman  was 
half  petrified  at  the  sight.  At  first  he  believed  it  to  be 
the  effect  of  witchcraft,  then  a  trick;  and  he  was  alto- 


THE  GUILTY  BRACELET  237 

gether  so  much  at  a  loss,  that,  turning  briskly  round, 
while  the  agent  grinned  in  his  face,  he  ran  down  the  steps 
without  saying  a  word. 

"Messer  Gherardo,  good  Messer  Gherardo,"  he  cried,  as 
he  held  pen  and  paper  in  haiid  to  give  him  a  receipt, 
"what  is  the  matter?"  Then,  looking  out  of  the  window, 
he  beheld  him  running  along  at  a  furious  pace,  everyone 
making  way  for  him. 

The  agent,  shaking  his  head  (for  he  now  thought  him 
a  little  beside  himself),  returned  to  his  accounts,  regret- 
ting only  that  he  had  not  received  the  money;  while 
Messer  Gherardo,  who  had  all  his  wits  about  him  as  far 
as  his  interest  was  concerned,  hastened  to  the  house  of 
his  friend  the  goldsmith,  anxious  to  ascertain  the  value 
of  the  toy,  in  lieu  of  the  sum  he  had  lost.  When  he 
heard  it  amounted  to  at  least  two  hundred  ducats,  he 
suddenly  bethought  him  of  the  richly  dressed  lady  who 
stood  near  him  at  mass,  imagining  he  had  seen  it  upon 
her  arm,  but  of  this  he  was  not  certain.  He  next  con- 
jectured she  had  played  him  a  trick,  but  neither  the  time 
nor  the  place  seemed  to  warrant  such  a  supposition.  Be- 
sides, he  did  not  know  her,  nor  she  him,  though  he  wished 
to  learn  where  she  lived. 

"I  think  I  have  guessed  it  though,  now,"  he  exclaimed, 
as  if  a  sudden  bright  thought  had  struck  him.  "My  purse 
lay  beside  me;  I  was  buried  in  profound  devotion,  and 
she,  wanting  money,  thrust  her  hand  into  my  moneybag, 
and  by  accident  left  the  bracelet  behind  her," 

Yet  how  to  reconcile  this,  he  thought,  with  so  much 
fashion,  beauty,  and  devotion  as  she  displayed?  He  felt 
ashamed  of  such  an  accusation,  and  tried  to  banish  it 


238  CARLO  GOZZI 

from  his  mind.  He  resolved,  however,  to  keep  the  brace- 
let and  quietly  await  the  result  ;  then  returning  in  better 
spirits  to  settle  his  account  with  the  agent,  not  without 
some  jeers,  he  pretended  to  have  forgotten  the  money, 
which,  having  now  paid,  he  felt  much  happier  and  easier, 
and,  with  a  smile  on  both  sides,  they  took  leave. 

The  next  day  Messer  Gherardo,  walking  along  the 
streets,  observed,  upon  turning  a  comer,  affixed  to  a 
pillar  the  following  advertisement  in  large  letters. 

*'Lost  or  stolen,  a  rich  gold  bracelet,  with  handsome  diamond 
clasps;  whoever  will  restore  it  to  the  owner,  by  leaving  it  at  the 
sacristy  of  Santo  Marcuola,  shall  receive  a  handsome  reward." 

Messer  Gherardo,  thunderstruck  at  these  words,  read 
them  again  and  again,  as  he  would  otherwise  have  had 
no  scruples  in  retaining  the  bracelet.  As  it  was,  how- 
ever, such  was  the  singularity  of  the  case,  that  he  could 
not  help  laughing  as  he  directed  his  steps  toward  the 
said  sacristy,  where,  upon  his  arrival,  he  inquired  for  the 
curate.     Taking  him  to  one  side,  he  said: 

"My  reverend  father,  my  business  with  you  is  no  other 
than  a  confession,  and  if  you  will  give  me  permission,  I 
will  inform  you.  But  you  must  grant  me  one  condition, 
without  which  I  must  take  my  leave  as  I  came." 

"Speak  out,"  replied  the  curate;  "what  is  it?  If  proper, 
it  is  granted." 

"Then,"  returned  Messer  Gherardo,  "I  am  the  man 
that  found  the  bracelet;  but  I  will  never  restore  it  unless 
it  be  to  the  lady  herself.  Now  I  beg  you  will  not  attri- 
bute this  to  any  suspicion,  or  any  improper  motive; 
only,  it  will  be  far  preferable,  on  the  lady's  account,  that 
I  should  return  it  to  her  without  other  witnesses.     If 


THE  GUILTY  BRACELET  239 

you  will  be  so  good  as  to  point  out  her  abode  to  me,  you 
may  rely  upon  it  that  I  will  go  forthwith,  like  a  good 
subject  of  the  Catholic  Church,  and  return  it  to  the 
owner;  otherwise  you  must  excuse  me.  I  shall  keep 
the  bracelet,  and  without  the  slightest  scruples." 

The  curate  replied,  "To  any  person  who  should  re- 
store such  an  ornament  I  have  received  orders  to  give 
three  sequins,  that  he  might  treat  himself  to  a  good  dram  ; 
but  as  to  you.  Signor,  you  are  perhaps  not  in  want  of 
one." 

"Signor,"  retorted  Messer  Gherardo,  "I  would  not  re- 
turn it  for  a  hundred  sequins  ;  but  if  I  may  restore  it  into 
the  lady's  own  hands,  I  will  require  nothing." 

"My  son,"  replied  the  curate,  "I  would  recommend  to 
you  to  entertain  a  little  more  reverence  and  holy  fear  of 
Heaven.  Surely  you  would  not  keep  what  is  not  yours  ; 
but  as  you  seem  resolved  to  restore  it  only  to  the  lady, 
so  be  it.  I  will  call  my  clerk,  since  you  are  so  very  ob- 
stinate, and  he  shall  point  out  to  you  her  dwelling." 

So,  after  accompanying  him  a  little  way,  the  little  fat 
clerk  said,  "That  is  it,  Signor,"  pointing  to  a  very  hand- 
some and  spacious  house  ;  and  upon  gaining  admission  he 
was  shown  up  a  magnificent  staircase  into  a  large  salon, 
the  walls  covered  with  silk  linings,  the  sight  of  which 
made  the  mercer's  heart  glow;  and  such  was  his  confus- 
ion at  the  idea  of  his  temerity  in  entering,  that  he  could 
hardly  ascertain  the  quality  of  the  silk.  At  first  he 
thought  of  making  his  escape,  imagining  that  he  had 
committed  some  gross  blunder,  and  might  be  running 
his  head  into  a  scrape.    While  he  was  doubtful  in  what 


240  CARLO  GOZZI 

way  to  act,  but  was  gradually  edging  out,  a  maid-servant 
advanced  from  the  staircase,  crying: 

"Who  is  it?  Pray,  who  are  you  and  what  do  you 
want?" 

Half  struck  dumb,  with  his  hat  held  politely  in  his 
hand,  Messer  Gherardo  replied,  "I  wish  to  see  the  lady 
of  the  house,  and,  if  perfectly  convenient  to  her  ladyship, 
to  be  permitted  to  speak  with  her";  and  this  he  said  in 
his  usual  style  when  waiting  on  the  great  to  receive 
commissions. 

"Madam,"  cried  the  girl,  calling  to  her  mistress  in  an 
adjacent  apartment,  "it  is  a  gentleman  who  wishes  to 
speak  to  you  about  some  business." 

"Then  let  him  come.  Why  do  not  you  show  him  in?" 
answered  a  voice  that  startled  our  poor  tradesman,  as  he 
hastened  to  obey  her  commands. 

On  entering,  he  discovered,  sitting  in  an  easy-chair,  the 
same  beautiful  lady  whom  he  had  seen  at  mass,  a  sur- 
prise that  had  almost  cost  him  his  life,  for  a  few  degrees 
more  would  infallibly  have  amounted  to  a  fit  of  apoplexy. 
The  lady  looked  full  at  Messer  Gherardo,  and  grew  pale 
as  the  wife  of  Lot  when  she  was  turned  into  a  pillar  of 
salt;  in  fact,  she  had  nearly  swooned  away;  for  it  never 
had  entered  into  her  head,  when  she  missed  her  bracelet, 
that  she  could  have  left  it  behind  on  withdrav/ing  her 
hand  out  of  the  old  gentleman's  purse.  But  such  was 
her  hurry  to  secure  the  ten  pieces,  which  she  effectually 
did,  as  she  observed  him  absorbed  in  his  devotions,  that 
it  is  hardly  surprising  she  was  not  aware  of  the  loss  of 
it  when  it  came  unclasped.  On  the  other  hand,  she  con- 
cluded she  must  have  lost  it  on  the  road  from  church, 


THE  GUILTY  BRACELET  241 

or  she  never  would  have  had  the  folly  to  advertise  it. 
Little  did  she  think,  then,  such  shame  and  exposure  were 
reserved  for  her. 

Messer  Gherardo,  in  his  turn,  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the 
lady,  whose  looks  were  still  directed  toward  him,  neither 
of  them  uttering  a  word.  At  length,  our  tradesman,  be- 
ing naturally  possessed  of  much  presence  of  mind  and 
discrimination,  further  disciplined  by  his  habit  of  attend- 
ing to  all  ranks  and  descriptions  of  purchasers,  pulled 
the  fatal  bracelet  from  his  pocket,  and  holding  it  by  one 
end,  proceeded  to  say  : 

"I  am  at  a  loss,  Madam,  to  say  in  what  manner  the 
accident  occurred;  it  is  plain  that  you  lost  this  bracelet, 
but  the  wretch  has  stolen  ten  sequins  out  of  my  purse. 
Yet  you  see  I  have  caught  him,  and  hold  him  fast  by 
the  hair,"  showing  the  bracelet  in  his  hand;  "and  if  he 
refuses  to  make  restitution  of  my  money,  which  is  my 
heart's  blood,  I  will  put  him  into  such  durance  that  you 
will  never  have  the  pleasure  of  beholding  the  offender 
again.  I  know  that  he  is  a  familiar  friend,  very  dear  to 
you,  and  that  you  love  him  as  well  as  woman  ever  loved 
such  pretty  things.  For  the  sake  of  your  reputation  and 
of  your  family,  then,  I  would  advise  you  to  pay  his  fine, 
or  I  will  take  such  revenge  upon  him  as  will  prove  very 
disagreeable  to  you.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  you  consent 
to  pay  what  he  owes  me,  the  scandal  of  this  affair  shall 
go  no  further  than  ourselves,  and  I  will  set  the  thief  free  ; 
not,  however,  without  desiring  you  to  give  him  a  word 
of  advice  for  the  future,  and  a  little  correction  at  your 
hands,  such  as  he  will  remember  to  the  latest  day  of  his 
life." 


242  CARLO  GOZZI 

In  spite  of  her  confusion,  the  lady  could  not  avoid 
bursting  into  a  fit  of  laughter  as  he  concluded  ;  and  upon 
recovering  her  presence  of  mind,  she  adopted  the  most 
prudent  course,  by  walking  to  her  desk  and  taking  out 
ten  sequins,  perhaps  the  identical  pieces  she  had  pilfered, 
which  had  arrested  the  guilty  bracelet  in  the  very  act. 
Turning  toward  M esser  Gherardo,  she  said: 

"I  vow,  my  dear  Signor,  that  the  moment  the  rogue 
had  committed  the  deed,  he  ran  away  from  me,  dreading 
my  displeasure.  Here  is  the  money  he  stole  ;  and  since  you 
are  pleased  to  set  him  at  liberty  and  to  keep  the  affair 
secret,  which  I  entreat  you  to  do,  I  shall  consider  myself 
eternally  bound  to  you.  As  you  say,  I  will  keep  him 
in  order  for  the  future,  and  prevent  the  possibility  of 
his  becoming  guilty  of  such  an  offense  again." 

She  then  counted  the  pieces  into  his  hand,  and  received 
the  bracelet  in  return  ;  and  after  a  few  more  ceremonies, 
the  good  man  took  his  leave.  It  is  certain  that  this  lady 
was  a  woman  of  fashion,  of  respectable  family  and  con- 
nections, the  wife  of  a  wealthy  citizen,  too  fond  of  gayety 
and  extravagance.  As  her  husband  did  not  supply  her 
fast  enough  with  money  for  dresses  and  play,  she  was 
in  the  habit  of  drawing  from  other  resources,  in  the  man- 
ner we  have  here  detailed. 


STOLEN   FRUIT  243 


STOLEN  FRUIT 

^^^T  happened  to  be  a  year  of  g^eat  scarcity,  and 

^1      especially  in  the  province  of  O ,   insomuch 

^£^  that  the  villagers  died  of  hunger,  while  the  grain 
and  vines  of  every  kind  looked  as  if  they  had 
been  ridden  over  by  troops  of  horse,  affording  such  a 
prospect  as  nearly  drove  the  farmers  and  their  landlords 
distracted.  A  fine  time  indeed  for  those  who  had  noth- 
ing to  do  but  eat  the  fruits  of  others  !  So  that  the  owners 
were  compelled  to  keep  watch  day  and  night,  though  the 
harvest  was  hardly  worth  the  pains. 

More  for  whim  than  want,  Carl  Foschino  agreed  with 
his  companions  to  make  an  attack  on  one  of  the  vineyards, 
celebrated  for  the  sweetness  of  its  grapes,  at  Santo  Mar- 
tino di ,  which  is  a  short  distance  from  the  city,  in- 
tending not  only  to  eat  as  much  as  they  liked,  but  to  fill 
a  good  basket  or  two  for  future  use.  With  this  view 
each  of  them  took  his  pannier  under  his  arm,  and  sally- 
ing forth  about  midnight,  they  arrived  at  the  land  of 
promise,  into  which  they  cautiously  entered.  When 
once  fairly  in  possession,  they  proceeded  to  clear  the 
ground  before  them  in  great  style,  whispering  one  an- 
other at  intervals,  "How  good  they  are!"  "Yes,  so 
sweet!  what  a  flavor!  exquisite!  It  is  a  real  paradise 
for  us  hapless  mortals"  ;  and  thus  feasting  and  applaud- 
ing they  did  great  execution,  sweeping  everything  be- 
fore them  in  order  to  get  at  fresh  bunches,  until 
they  were  fairly  weary  and  in  danger  of  suffocation. 
Then,  drawing  their  well-sharpened  knives,  they  began 


244  CARLO  GOZZI 

afresh  the  work  of  destruction,  filling  their  panniers  with 
all  the  expedition  in  their  power. 

They  were  proceeding  merrily  through  a  fine  planta- 
tion, having  finished  the  better  half  of  their  task,  but 
they  could  not  avoid  making  a  rustling  noise  with  the 
branches  and  scattering  a  few  leaves  ;  and,  the  night  being 
so  still  that  a  nest  of  ants  at  work  would  have  been  heard, 
this  was  enough  to  rouse  the  jealousy  of  three  armed 
m3nrmidons  on  watch,  who,  like  men  of  war,  were  scour- 
ing those  coasts,  to  give  all  freebooters  a  warm  reception 
with  their  great  rusty  blunderbusses  and  enormous  slugs, 
in  any  shape  but  round.  Hearing  a  noise  of  the  crash- 
ing of  branches,  one  of  the  watchmen  discharged  his 
piece  in  that  direction,  while  a  sudden  rush  was  made, 
and  a  cry  was  set  up  enough  to  shake  the  soul  of  a  hero. 
"Thieves!  thieves!  that  way!  leap  the  ditch!  shoot,  kill 
them!  oh,  that  is  good,  by  San  Bellino!"  Yet  Heaven 
willed  that  the  shot  should  miss  its  aim;  and  the  wily 
robbers,  not  forgetting  their  panniers,  set  off  at  the 
sounds  of  vengeance  they  heard,  using  their  utmost  ef- 
forts to  escape  along  a  narrow  path.  The  night  was 
dark,  and  they  often  stumbled  over  the  stalks  of  the  vine 
or  of  the  Indian  corn  growing  in  the  field,  though  with- 
out paying  attention  to  the  circumstance,  the  entangling 
and  tearing  and  trampling  of  leaves  giving  them  little 
chance  of  escape  from  their  fierce  pursuers,  whose  threat- 
ening cries  sounded  nearer  and  nearer,  till  they  imagined 
they  felt  themselves  run  through  the  body.  In  this  ex- 
tremity Petrani  whispered  in  a  soft  voice  as  he  continued 
running  : 


STOLEN   FRUIT  245 

"My  friends,  let  us  throw  away  our  panniers  and  have 
a  chance  for  our  lives  !" 

To  this  Cedola  replied,  hardly  able  to  draw  his  breath, 
"You  say  well,  let  them  go." 

"No,  no,"  cried  Foschino;  "take  heart,  brothers,  and 
leave  the  matter  to  me!" 

Forthwith  he  began  to  bellow  as  loud  as  he  could, 
"Mercy  upon  me  !  that  last  shot  has  pierced  me  through  ; 
I  am  dying,  though  I  did  not  feel  it  before  ;  my  blood  is 
spouting  out  like  new  wine  from  the  barrel! — Con- 
firm what  I  say,  you  blockheads,  and  make  your  escape." 

Then  Cedola  began  to  cry,  "Mercy,  mercy  upon  us! 
try  to  get  a  little  farther  ;  the  wound  is  perhaps  not  mor- 
tal, and  we  will  fetch  you  a  surgeon." 

"No,"  replied  the  wily  Foschino,  in  a  dying  voice,  the 
better  to  keep  up  the  cheat,  "it  is  all  over  with  me. 
Those  cruel  rascals  have  murdered  a  poor  Christian  for 
eating  a  bunch  of  grapes;  yet,  by  the  Holy  Virgin,  they 
will  have  to  swing  for  it,  that  is  some  consolation!" 

And  thus  saying,  they  proceeded  with  flying  colors, 
their  panniers  heaped  up  with  grapes.  For  the  stupid 
watchmen,  imagining  all  they  heard  to  be  true,  began  to 
consider  the  matter  and  take  more  time. 

"Do  you  hear  what  he  says?"  cried  one. 

"That  I  do,"  cried  the  second. 

"And  you,  do  you  hear?"  they  added  to  the  third,  one 
of  the  oldest  cut-throats  in  all  Italy. 

"Let  them  take  it,  by  all  the  saints,  it  is  very  well  ;  they 
will  obey  the  eighth  commandment  in  future.  I  will  go 
nearer,  for  I  daresay  they  must  have  left  loads  of  grapes 

16 


246  CARLO  GOZZI 

behind  them,  the  wretches!"  and  they  proceeded  more 
cautiously  in  pursuit. 

Foschino  hearing  footsteps  stealing  along,  afraid  of 
discovery,  and  at  the  same  time  of  losing  the  grapes  and 
receiving  a  good  bastinado  from  the  watchmen,  resolved, 
as  he  felt  himself  quite  wearied  out,  to  go  no  further. 

"Leave  me  here  to  die,  dear  friends.  I  am  only  grieved 
that  there  is  no  priest  at  hand  to  confess  me,  but  Heaven's 
will  be  done!  Fly,  save  yourselves!  Remember  me  to 
my  poor  wife  and  children,  and  perform  my  last  wish!" 
During  this  time  the  foolish  watchmen  were  listening,  as 
he  continued,  "Be  witness  that  I  leave  my  wife  all  I  have, 
in  trust  for  the  benefit  of  our  children  after  her,  in  equal 
portions;  be  kind  to  her  and  to  them,  and  assist  them 
to  bring  my  body  away  to-morrow,  that  I  may  receive 
Christian  burial,  and  persuade  my  friends  to  offer  up  a 
few  alms  and  masses  for  my  poor  soul.  I  feel  that  I  am 
going  now,  and  do  you  go  too  !" 

The  rustics  hearing  these  sad  words,  stopped,  and  now 
began  to  hold  a  colloquy  upon  this  unlucky  case;  while 
Cedola  and  Petrani  set  up  the  most  horrid  lamentations, 
wringing  their  hands  and  sobbing  as  if  their  hearts  would 
break. 

"Nay,  do  not  give  way  to  despair.  A  plague  upon  the 
watchmen!  they  will  hang  for  it;  and  upon  the  grapes! 
we  may  indeed  call  them  sour.  Well,  we  have  the  com- 
fort to  think  that  the  watchmen  will  be  hanged  if  you 
die;  they  were  only  to  take  us  intoi  custody,  not  to  take 
our  lives.  There  never  was  such  a  piece  of  barbarity, 
such  a  wilful  murder,  since  the  world  began.  See  how 
he  bleeds,  poor  fellow!  he  will  not  live  long.     Come,  let 


STOLEN   FRUIT  247 

them  even,  kill  us  all,  since  they  have  killed  our  best 
friend,  a  gentleman  who  only  joined  us  for  a  frolic.  Let 
the  wretches  dip  their  hands  in  the  blood  of  us  all  ;  but 
we  are  men  of  quality,  and  they  shall  smart  for  it." 

On  hearing  these  words  and  cries  so  boldly  uttered,  the 
guards  thought  it  to  be  a  serious  affair,  and  being  really 
afraid  that  they  had  killed  the  gentleman,  began  to  think 
of  running  in  their  turn.  But  when  they  next  heard 
him  say,  in  a  feeble  and  lamentable  voice,  "In  mamis  tuas, 
Domine,  commendo  spirìtnm  mcnm,"  they  could  no  longer 
control  their  fright,  but  took  to  their  heels,  just  as  they 
heard  the  others  utter,  "He  is  dead,  he  is  gone  forever; 
cold,  cold,  my  friend  !"  and  a  fresh  ululation  was  set  up, 
which  added  wings  to  the  flight  of  the  watchmen.  This 
done,  they  departed  at  their  leisure,  the  dead  man  lead- 
ing the  way  with  the  panniers. 

When  the  watch  ventured  to  stop,  one  of  them  said, 
"Who  shot  him,  think  you?  It  was  not  I,  I  am  sure." 
"Nor  I."  "Nor  I."  "Well,  but,"  said  another,  "you 
agreed  that  I  should  fire."  "True,  but  you  should  have 
shot  over  his  head,  and  not  through  his  body."  "Well," 
replied  the  man,  "I  thought  I  did  shoot  high  into  the  air. 
I  wonder  how  it  could  have  killed  him";  and  thus,  each 
speaking  in  his  own  defense,  full  of  fear  and  trembling, 
they  returned  home,  but  were  unable  to  sleep  a  wink  that 
night;  Avhile  the  three  knaves,  having  recovered  from 
their  terror,  were  enjoying  themselves  comfortably  over 
their  panniers  of  grapes.  In  the  morning  the  thieves 
gave  an  account  of  their  adventure,  which  threw  their 
auditors  into  such  fits  of  laughter  that  some  have  not 
ceased  even  to  this  day.     As  for  the  poor  rustics,  although 


248  CARLO  GOZZI 

they  never  found  the  corpse,  nor  was  any  charge  brought 
against  them,  they  yet  continued  uneasy  and  suspicious, 
having  the  fear  of  the  gallows  perpetually  before  their 
eyes,  and  not  having  courage  to  make  any  inquiries  into 
the  affair,  lest  they  should  betray  themselves,  and  raise 
suspicions  that  they  had  been  guilty  of  so  wicked  a  homi- 
cide. 


THE   STORY   OF   THE   HUMAN   RACE 

BY 

GIACOMO  LEOPARDI 

TRANSLATED  BY  JAMES  THOMSON  ("B.  V.") 


249 


(^ 


INTRODUCTION 

lACOMO  LEOPARDI  was  born,  June  29,  1798, 
in  Recanati,  near  Ancona,  and  he  lived  there 
till  he  was  twenty-four  years  old.  His  father 
was  the  Count  Monaldo  Leopardi,  his  mother 
the  Marchioness  Adelaide  Antici.  His  education  was  ob- 
tained from  private  tutors  and  his  father's  fine  library, 
of  which  he  had  free  use  from  his  earliest  years.  He 
learned  Greek,  French,  Spanish  and  Hebrew,  without  a 
master,  and  studied  philology  and  philosophy  with  en- 
thusiasm. But  his  too  close  application  to  books  im- 
paired his  eyesight,  and  for  a  year  he  was  obliged  to 
refrain  from  reading.  At  the  age  of  twenty-four  he  vis- 
ited Rome,  where  he  refused  a  prelacy,  and  afterward 
he  went  to  Bologna,  and  thence  to  Milan,  Before  this 
he  had  published  translations,  poems,  and  articles  in 
periodicals.  He  had  also  maintained  an  extensive  cor- 
respondence with  Pietro  Giordani,  whom  Flamini  char- 
acterizes as  "a  writer  truly  unique  and  accomplished,  the 
dictator  of  Italian  prose  in  the  first  half  of  the  nineteenth 
century,"  adding  that  he  "loved  and  protected  Leopardi 
and  praised  him  unstintedly."  In  one  of  his  letters  Leo- 
pardi wrote:  "I  have  a  very  great — perhaps  immoderate 
and  insolent— desire  of  glory,  but  cannot  endure  that 
anything  of  mine  which  does  not  satisfy  myself  should 
be  praised.  Do  not  speak  to  me  of  Recanati.  It  is  so 
dear  to  me  that  it  furnishes  me  with  excellent  ideas  for 
a  treatise  on  hatred  of  one's  country.     But  my  country 

251 


252  GIACOMO  LEOPARDI 

is  Italy,  for  v/hich  I  bum  with  love,  thanking  Heaven 
for  having  made  me  an  Italian." 

Next  to  his  love  of  country  and  his  passion  for  lit- 
erature and  literary  fame,  his  mind  dwelt  on  his  great 
misfortune — his  physical  weakness  and  lack  of  health. 
This  he  bewailed  chiefly  because  it  denied  him  the  love 
of  woman.  In  1818  he  wrote:  "I  have  ruined  myself 
with  seven  years  of  mad  and  most  desperate  study  dur- 
ing that  age  when  my  constitution  was  forming  and 
should  have  grown  strong.  And  I  have  ruined  myself 
unhappily  and  beyond  remedy  for  my  whole  life,  and 
rendered  my  aspect  miserable,  and  contemptible  all  that 
great  portion  of  man  which  is  alone  regarded  by  the 
many  ;  and  with  the  many  one  must  needs  have  to  do  in 
this  world;  and  not  only  the  many,  but  all,  are  con- 
strained to  desire  that  virtue  be  not  without  some  ex- 
terior ornament,  and  finding  it  wholly  destitute  they  are 
grieved;  and  by  force  of  nature,  which  no  wisdom  can 
vanquish,  they  hardly  dare  to  love  him  in  whom  nothing 
is  beautiful  save  the  soul." 

He  earned  something  by  taking  two  noble  pupils  in 
Greek  and  Latin,  and  made  a  contract  with  a  publisher 
who  advanced  him  money  regularly  on  books  that  were 
to  be  written.  This  gave  him  a  feeling  of  independence  ; 
but  all  the  time  he  continued  his  hard  study  and  his 
voluminous  writing,  for  he  had  made  a  high  reputation 
as  critic,  essayist  and  poet.  His  best  known  poem  is  an 
ode  to  Italy.  He  died  near  Naples,  June  14,  1837.  Much 
of  his  literary  work  was  only  in  manuscript  during  his 
lifetime.  A  complete  edition  of  his  works  appeared  in 
Florence  in  1845,  and  a  part  of  his  correspondence  in  1849. 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  HUMAN  RACE 

/•^^T  is  said  that  all  men  who  in  the  beginning  peo- 
mI  pled  the  earth  were  created  everywhere  at  the 
^f^  same  time,  and  all  were  infants,  and  they  were 
nourished  by  bees,  goats,  and  doves,  in  the  man- 
ner that  the  poets  fabled  of  the  rearing  of  Jove  ;  that  the 
earth  was  much  smaller  than  it  is  now,  nearly  all  the 
regions  were  level,  the  sky  was  without  stars,  the  sea 
was  not  yet  formed;  and  that  much  less  variety  and 
magnificence  appeared  in  the  world  than  it  now  pos- 
sesses. Nevertheless,  mankind,  taking  inexhaustible  de- 
light in  considering  heaven  and  earth,  wondering  at  them 
beyond  measure,  and  accounting  the  one  and  the  other 
most  beautiful,  and  not  merely  vast,  but  infinite  in  ex- 
tent as  in  majesty  and  loveliness  ;  nourishing  themselves, 
moreover,  with  the  most  joyous  hopes,  and  drawing 
from  every  sensation  of  their  life  incredible  pleasures, 
grew  up  with  much  content,  and  believed  themselves  to 
be  almost  completely  happy.  Having  thus  very  sweetly 
fulfilled  childhood  and  early  adolescence,  and  reached 
maturer  age,  they  began  tO'  experience  a  change.  For 
the  hopes  whose  fruition  until  then  they  had  put  off  from 
day  to  day,  not  being  realized,  they  began  to  lose  faith  in 
them. 

To  content  themselves  with  whatever  they  actually 
enjoyed,  without  the  prospect  of  any  increase  of  good, 
seemed  to  be  against  their  nature,  particularly  as  the 

253 


254  GIACOMO  LEOPARDI 

aspect  of  natural  things  and  every  part  of  their  daily  life, 
whether  by  long  usage  or  because  the  first  vivacity  of 
their  minds  was  diminished,  became  much  less  delightful 
and  grateful  than  in  the  beginning.  They  wandered 
about  the  earth,  visiting  the  most  remote  regions,  since 
they  could  easily  do  so,  the  districts  being  level  and  not 
divided  by  seas  nor  obstructed  by  other  difficulties  ;  and 
after  several  years  most  of  them  perceived  that  the  earth, 
although  great,  was  not  so  vast  as  to  be  without  well- 
defined  limits;  and  that  all  parts  of  it,  and  all  its  inhab- 
itants, with  but  slight  differences,  were  similar  one  to 
another.  Wherefore  their  discontent  so  increased  that 
they  had  not  yet  outgrown  their  youth  when  a  distaste 
for  their  own  being  became  universal.  And  step  by  step 
in  their  maturity,  and  still  more  in  their  declining  years, 
satiety  being  converted  into  hatred,  some  of  them  arrived 
at  such  desperation  that,  not  enduring  the  light  and  the 
life  which  at  first  they  had  loved  so  much,  they  spon- 
taneously, some  in  one  mode  and  some  in  another,  ended 
their  existence. 

It  seemed  dreadful  to  the  gods  that  living  creatures 
should  prefer  death  to  life,  and  destroy  themselves  with- 
out being  compelled  by  any  unavoidable  circumstance 
or  extreme  necessity.  It  cannot  be  told  how  much  they 
marveled  that  their  gifts  should  be  accounted  so  vile 
and  abominable  that  men  should  with  all  their  force  re- 
nounce and  reject  them;  since  they  believed  they  had 
put  into  the  world  so  much  good  and  beauty,  and  such 
regulations  and  conditions,  that  this  dwelling-place  ought 
to  be  not  only  endured,  but  loved  by  all  animals  whatso- 
ever, and  most  of  all  by  men  whose  race  they  had  formed 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  HUMAN  RACE       255 

with  care  and  wonderful  excellence.  But  at  the  same 
time,  besides  being  touched  with  no  little  pity  for  the 
human  misery  that  was  so  sadly  manifested,  they  even 
doubted  whether,  those  grievous  examples  being  renewed 
and  multiplied,  the  human  species  in  a  short  time  would 
not  wholly  perish,  and  the  world  be  deprived  of  that 
perfection  which  accrued  to  it  from  our  race,  and  them- 
selves of  those  honors  they  received  from  mankind. 

Jove  therefore  resolved  to  improve,  as  improvement 
seemed  needful,  the  conditions  of  human  life,  and  to  pro- 
vide it  with  additional  means  for  attaining  felicity.  Men 
chiefly  complained,  he  found,  that  things  were  not  im- 
mense in  size,  nor  infinite  in  beauty,  perfection,  and  va- 
riety, as  they  had  deemed  at  first;  but  were  indeed  very 
limited,  all  imperfect,  and  nearly  uniform;  and  that 
complaining  not  only  of  their  age,  but  of  their  maturity, 
and  even  of  their  youth,  and  desiring  the  delights  of 
their  earliest  years,  men  ardently  prayed  to  be  re-con- 
verted to  childhood,  and  in  that  condition  to  remain  all 
their  lives.  In  this  Jove  could  not  gratify  them,  it  being 
contrary  to  the  universal  laws  of  nature,  and  to  those 
functions  and  uses  which  mankind  ought,  according  to 
the  divine  intention  and  decrees,  to  exercise  and  fulfil. 
Nor  could  he  communicate  his  own  infinity  to  mortal 
creatures,  nor  make  matter  infinite,  nor  infinite  the  per- 
fection and  felicity  of  things  and  men.  However,  he 
thought  it  expedient  to  extend  the  limits  of  the  creation, 
and  further  to  adorn  and  vary  it.  Having  thus  resolved, 
he  enlarged  the  earth  on  every  side,  and  poured  into  it 
the  sea,  with  the  object  of  diversifying  the  world's  ap- 
pearance by  its  interposition  between  the  various  inhab- 


256  GIACOMO  LEOPARDI 

ited  regions,  and  of  preventing  men,  by  the  difficulties 
of  navigation,  from  too  easily  discovering  its  limits, 
while  giving  to  the  eye  at  the  same  time  a  vivid  impres- 
sion of  immensity. 

At  this  period  of  mundane  life,  the  new  waters  oc- 
cupied the  land  of  Atlantis,  and  not  only  that,  but  also 
other  innumerable  and  very  extensive  tracts,  although 
of  that  only  the  memory  remains,  preserved  through 
countless  ages  in  story  and  legend.  Many  districts  Jove 
depressed,  many  filled  up  by  raising  mountains  and  hills  ; 
he  sprinkled  the  night  with  stars,  refined  and  purified 
the  air,  increased  the  clearness  of  the  light  of  day, 
heightened  and  proportioned  more  diversely  the  colors 
of  the  heavens  and  the  landscapes;  and  he  mixed  the 
generations  of  mankind,  so  that  the  old  age  of  some  fell 
in  the  same  time  as  the  youth  and  childhood  of  others. 
And  having  determined  to  multiply  the  appearances  of 
that  infinitude  which  men  so  ardently  desired  (since  he 
could  not  gratify  them  with  reality),  and  wishing  to 
cherish  and  nourish  their  imaginations,  from  which,  he 
well  knew,  chiefly  arose  the  great  happiness  of  their 
childhood,  he  adopted  many  other  expedients  similar  to 
that  of  the  seas;  such  as  the  creation  of  Echo,  which  he 
concealed  in  valleys  and  caverns.  He  filled  the  forests 
with  the  deep  and  hollow  voices  of  the  winds,  whose 
motions  at  the  same  time  caused  a  continual  undulation 
of  the  tree-tops.  He  created  likewise  the  brood  of 
dreams,  and  charged  them  that,  illuding  under  many 
forms  the  minds  of  men,  they  should  figure  to  them  that 
plenitude  of  unintelligible  felicity  which  even  he  could 
not  create,  and  those  confused  and  indeterminate  imagin- 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  HUMAN  RACE       257 

ings  which,  being  without  subsbtantial  prototypes,  could 
not  be  realized,  however  much  men  might  yearn  for 
them,  and  however  willing  Jove  might  otherwise  be  to 
gratify  their  longings. 

By  these  provisions  the  spirit  of  man  was  refreshed 
and  renovated,  and  the  charm  and  sweetness  of  life  were 
in  everyone  restored,  so  that  they  once  more  felt,  loved, 
and  admired  the  beauty  and  immensity  of  earthly  things. 
And  this  good  state  lasted  longer  than  the  first,  chiefly 
because  of  the  intervals  between  the  times  of  birth  which 
Jove  had  introduced,  so  that  those  whom  experience  of 
life  had  chilled  and  wearied  were  refreshed  by  the  sight 
of  the  warmth  and  hopefulness  of  the  young.  But  in 
process  of  time,  the  novelty  being  quite  gone,  the  tedium 
and  disesteem  of  life  returned  stronger  than  before,  and 
men  sank  into  such  dejection  that  it  is  believed  the  cus- 
tom then  began  which  is  recorded  in  histories  as  prac- 
tised by  certain  ancient  peoples,*  namely,  that  when  a 
child  was  bom  the  parents  and  friends  of  the  family  as- 
sembled to  bewail  the  event  ;  but  when  a  death  occurred 
the  day  was  consecrated  to  rejoicings  and  congratulatory 
discourses.  At  last  all  mortals  became  infected  with  im- 
piety, either  because  they  believed  themselves  to  be  aban- 
doned by  Jove,  or  because  it  is  the  very  nature  of  misery  to 
harden  and  corrupt  even  the  dispositions  most  inclined 
to  goodness.  For  they  are  altogether  wrong  who  think 
that  human  infelicity  was  first  born  of  the  iniquities  of 
men  and  their  offenses  against  the  gods.  On  the  con- 
trary, the  ill-conduct  of  men  first  arose  from  nothing 
else  than  their  calamities. 


*See  Herodotus,  lib.  5,  cap.  4;  Strabo,  lib.  11. 
17 


258  GIACOMO  LEOPARDI 

After  the  gods  had  punished  the  insolence  of  mortals 
with  the  deluge  of  Deucalion,  and  taken  vengeance  for 
their  outrages,  the  two  survivors  of  the  universal  destruc- 
tion of  our  species,  Deucalion  and  Pyrrha,  convinced 
that  nothing  more  fortunate  for  the  human  race  could 
happen  than  that  it  should  be  wholly  extinguished, 
seated  themselves  upon  the  summit  of  a  cliff,  and  vehe- 
mently called  upon  death  to  release  them  from,  the  bur- 
den of  existence — so  far  were  they  from  fearing  or  de- 
ploring the  common  lot.  Nevertheless,  admonished  by 
Jove  once  more  to  people  the  earth,  and  not  welcoming, 
in  consequence  of  their  wretchedness  and  their  disdain 
of  life,  the  work  of  generation,  they  took  stones  from 
the  mountain,  as  the  gods  instructed  them,  and  casting 
these  over  their  shoulders  restored  the  human  species. 
But  Jove  had  become  aware  of  the  true  nature  of  men; 
that  it  does  not  suffice  them,  like  other  animals,  merely 
to  live  exempt  from  pain  and  physical  suffering,  but  that, 
always  and  in  whatever  condition  desiring  the  impossi- 
ble, they  torment  themselves  the  more  with  imaginary 
evils  the  less  they  are  afflicted  with  real  ones.  He  there- 
fore resolved  to  avail  himself  of  other  arts  to  conserve 
this  miserable  race,  the  chief  of  which  were  two.  One 
was  to  inflict  upon  them  real  evils  ;  the  other  to  involve 
their  lives  in  a  thousand  businesses  and  labors,  so  as  to 
occupy  them  and  divert  them  as  much  as  possible  from 
commimion  with  their  own  minds,  or  at  least  from  de- 
siring that  unknown  and  impossible  felicity.  Where- 
fore he  began  by  diffusing  among  them  a  multitude  of 
diseases  and  an  infinite  number  of  other  misfortunes,  in 
which  his  intention  was,  by  varying  the  conditions  and 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  HUMAN  RACE       259 

fortunes  of  human  life,  to  prevent  satiety  by  leading 
men  to  appreciate  more  highly  their  real  blessings, 
owing  to  the  contrast  between  them  and  the  evils  from 
which  they  were  now  to  suffer;  and  moreover  so  to  ac- 
custom their  minds  to  wretchedness  that  the  lack  of 
positive  pleasure  in  life,  which  they  had  hitherto  found 
so  hard  to  support,  might  now  become  much  more  toler- 
able to  them.  It  was  also  his  intention  to  tame  the 
ferocity  of  mankind  by  compelling  them  to  bow  the  neck 
and  yield  to  necessity,  thus  inducing  them  to  be  more 
content  with  their  lot,  and  curbing  the  vehemence  of 
their  desires  no  less  by  physical  infirmities  than  by  men- 
tal sufferings.  And,  moreover,  he  knew  that  it  must 
come  to  pass  that  men  oppressed  by  disease  and  calami- 
ties would  be  less  ready  than  heretofore  to  turn  their 
hands  against  themselves,  because  they  would  be  cowed 
and  prostrated  in  spirit,  as  results  from  the  habitude  of 
suffering.  For  those  who  suffer  are  usually  sanguine 
of  an  improvement  in  their  condition,  and  therefore  de- 
sire to  live,  believing  they  would  be  altogether  happy 
could  they  overcome  the  evils  that  afflict  them  ;  and  this 
they  hope  to  do,  since  their  nature  so  persuades  them. 
Then  Jove  created  the  tempests  of  wind  and  rain, 
armed  himself  with  thunder  and  lightning,  gave  to  Nep- 
tune the  trident,  put  the  comets  in  revolution,  and  or- 
dained the  eclipses.  With  these  things  and  with  other 
terrible  signs  and  effects  he  meant  to  terrify  mortals 
from  time  to  time,  knowing  that  fear  and  present  dan- 
gers would  reconcile  to  life,  at  least  for  short  periods, 
not  only  the  unhappy,  but  those  even  who  most  detested 
it  and  were  most  inclined  tO'  flee  from  it. 


260  GIACOMO  LEOPARDI 

Then,  in  order  to  cure  the  indolence  of  men,  he  in- 
duced in  them  the  need  and  the  appetite  for  new  kinds 
of  food  and  drink,  which  could  not  be  procured  without 
much  and  heavy  toil;  whereas  before  the  deluge  men 
quenched  their  thirst  with  water  only,  and  fed  on  the 
herbs  and  fruits  that  the  earth  and  the  trees  ministered 
to  them  spontaneously,  and  on  other  simple  aliments, 
vjs^^  /  such  as  even  now  some  uncivilized  peoples  live  upon, 
Xjt^"*  and    particularly    the    inhabitants    of    California/'^      He 

assigned  to  the  different  regions  of  the  earth  different 
climatic  conditions,  and  divided  the  year  into  the  four 
seasons.  And  whereas,  up  to  that  period,  the  earth's 
temperature  had  at  all  times  been  so  uniformly  benign 
and  pleasant  that  men  had  not  felt  the  need  of  clothing, 
they  were  now  compelled  to  provide  themselves  with 
it,  in  order  that  they  might  thus,  at  the  cost  of  much 
labor,  counteract  the  mutations  and  the  inclemency  of 
the  weather. 

He  entrusted  to  Mercury  the  task  of  founding  the  first 
cities,  and  of  introducing  rivalries  and  discords  among 
men  by  dividing  them  into  peoples  and  nations,  and  by 
giving  them  different  languages.  Jove  instructed  him 
also  to  teach  men  song  and  those  other  arts,  which  both 
on  account  of  their  nature  and  origin  were  and  still  are 
called  divine.  He  himself  gave  laws,  conditions,  and 
civil  ordinances  to  the  new  peoples;  and  finally,  wishing 
to  bless  them  with  an  incomparable  gift,  he  sent  among 
them  certain  phantasms  of  most  excellent  and  super- 
himian  aspect,  to  whom  he  delegated  to  a  great  extent 

♦Leopardi  wrote  this  more  than  twenty  years  before  the  dis- 
covery of  gold  in  California. 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  HUMAN  RACE       261 

the  government  and  guidance  of  our  race.  These  were 
called  Justice,  Virtue,  Glory,  Patriotism,  and  the  like. 
Among  them  was  one  named  Love,  who,  like  the  rest, 
then  first  came  upon  earth;  for  before  clothing  came 
into  use  the  sexes  had  been  drawn  toward  each  other, 
not  by  the  sentiment  of  love,  but  by  that  impetus  o£ 
desire  which  has  at  all  times  governed  the  brutes;  and 
which,  like  the  desire  for  food,  depends  upon  appetite 
alone,  and  not  upon  any  higher  feeling. 

It  was  wonderful  how  much  fruit  these  divine  decrees 
bore  for  human  life,  and  how  much  the  new  condition  of 
men,  notwithstanding  the  toils,  the  terrors,  and  the  suf- 
ferings— things  before  then  unknown  to  our  race — sur- 
passed in  comfort  and  sweetness  that  which  had  existed 
before  the  deluge.  And  this  result  proceeded  in  great 
part  from  those  wonderful  phantasms  which  men  ac- 
counted now  genii,  now  gods,  and  followed  and  wor- 
shiped with  incredible  fervor,  and  with  vast  and  aston- 
ishing labors,  for  a  very  long  period;  being  chiefly  ex- 
cited thereto  by  their  most  celebrated  poets  and  artists, 
at  whose  instigation  many  mortals  did  not  hesitate  to 
sacrifice  their  blood  or  their  lives  to  these  imaginary 
beings,  now  to  one  of  them  and  now  to  another.  And 
this,  far  from  offending  Jove,  pleased  him  beyond  mea- 
sure, because,  among  other  reasons,  he  judged  that  men 
must  be  so  much  the  less  willing  to  throw  away  life 
voluntarily  as  they  were  the  more  ready  to  spend  it  for 
noble  and  glorious  causes.  These  good  ordinances 
greatly  exceeded  in  effect  and  duration  the  precedent 
ones;  since,  although  their  efficacy  gradually  declined 
and  at  last  altogether  disappeared,  their  influence  lasted 


262  GIACOMO  LEOPARDI 

so  long  that  down  to  a  period  not  far  distant  from  the 
present  age,  human  life,  almost  entirely  happy  at  first, 
remained  for  many  ages  easy,  or  at  least  endurable. 

The  decline  of  this  comparatively  happy  condition  of 
mankind  was  due  to  various  causes;  among  which  may 
be  mentioned  the  many  inventions  which  men  discov- 
ered to  provide  easily  and  quickly  for  their  needs;  the 
great  increase  in  the  disparity  of  conditions  and  func- 
tions instituted  among  them  by  Jove  when  he  founded 
the  first  republics  ;  the  indolence  and  vanity  that  through 
these  causes,  after  a  long  exile,  again  became  prevalent  ; 
the  fact  that,  partly  owing  to  the  nature  of  things,  and 
partly  because  of  the  indifference  induced  by  familiarity, 
men  were  no  longer  sensible  of  the  variety  in  life  which 
Jove  had  established,  a  result  which  always  happens 
after  long  habitude;  and  lastly  to  other  grave  causes, 
which,  as  they  have  been  described  and  expounded  by 
other  writers,  I  will  not  now  dwell  upon.  Certain  it 
is  that  men  again  felt  that  disgust  with  their  lot  which 
had  afflicted  them  before  the  deluge,  and  that  they 
longed  once  more  for  that  impossible  felicity  which  is 
alike  unknown  and  alien  tO'  the  nature  of  the  universe. 

But  the  total  revolution  of  their  fortune,  and  the  end 
of  that  state  which  we  are  now  wont  to  call  antique, 
arose  chiefly  from  a  cause  different  from  those  already 
mentioned:  and  it  was  this:  Among  those  phantasms 
so  much  esteemed  by  the  ancients  was  one  called  in 
their  tongues  Wisdom;  which,  being  honored  universal- 
ly like  all  its  companions,  and  being  followed  in  par- 
ticular by  many,  had  no  less  than  the  others  contributed 
its  share  to  the  prosperity  of  the  past  ages.     This  phan- 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  HUMAN  RACE       263 

tasm  many  and  many  times,  indeed  daily,  had  promised 
and  vowed  to  its  followers  that  it  would  show  them 
Truth,  which  it  said  was  a  very  great  genius  and  its 
own  master,  never  yet  seen  upon  the  earth,  but  dwelling 
with  the  gods  in  heaven  ;  whence  Wisdom  promised  that 
by  its  own  authority  and  favor  it  should  be  brought 
down  to  earth,  and  induced  for  some  time  to  reside 
among  men.  By  commerce  and  familiarity  with  this 
Truth  the  human  race  would  gain  such  profundity  of 
knowledge,  so  excellent  a  system  of  government,  such 
good  manners,  and  such  a  degree  of  happiness  that  its 
condition  would  almost  compare  with  that  of  the  gods. 
But  how  could  a  mere  shadow  and  empty  semblance  re- 
alize its  promises,  much  more  bring  Truth  to  earth?  So 
that  men  after  very  long  believing  and  trusting  grew 
aware  of  the  vanity  of  these  promises  ;  yet  being  always 
avid  for  new  things,  especially  through  the  indolence  in 
which  they  lived;  and  stimulated  partly  by  the  ambition 
to  rival  the  gods,  and  partly  by  the  desire  of  that  beati- 
tude which  the  phantasm  had  promised  them  would  be 
obtained  by  conversation  with  Truth,  they  demanded 
from  Jove,  with  as  much  importunity  as  presumption, 
that  he  should,  for  some  time  at  least,  allow  this  most 
noble  of  spirits  to  take  up  its  residence  on  earth;  at 
the  same  time  upbraiding  the  deity  for  envying  them  the 
benefits  which  they  would  derive  from  its  presence,  and 
renewing  their  ancient  and  odious  lamentations  of  the 
littleness  and  poverty  of  their  condition.  And  because 
these  specious  phantasms,  the  source  of  so  much  benefit 
to  the  preceding  ages,  were  now  held  by  the  majority  in 
small  esteem — not   that  men  had   yet   discovered   their 


264  GIACOMO  LEOPARDI 

illusory  character,  but  because  the  general  baseness  of 
thought  and  looseness  of  manners  were  such  that  hardly 
anyone  was  now  influenced  by  them — they,  blaspheming 
the  greatest  boon  which  the  Immortals  had  made  or 
could  make  to  them,  cried  out  that  the  earth  was  only 
thought  worthy  of  the  presence  of  the  inferior  genii; 
while  the  greater,  to  whose  authority  men  would  will- 
ingly bow,  were  not  permitted  to  visit  this  despised  por- 
tion of  the  universe. 

Many  things  had  already  for  a  long  time  alienated  the 
good- will  of  Jove  from  men;  and  among  others  the  un- 
paralleled vices  and  misdeeds,  which  for  number  and 
enormity  had  left  far  behind  the  wickedness  which  had 
been  punished  by  the  deluge.  He  was  thoroughly  dis- 
gusted, after  so  many  trials,  with  the  restless,  insatiable, 
immoderate  human  nature,  which  he  now  saw  that  noth- 
ing could  render  tranquil,  not  to  say  happy;  since  no 
provisions  for  its  welfare  contented  it,  no  condition 
pleased  it,  and  no  country  satisfied  it.  Even  though  he 
had  been  willing  to  augment  a  thousand-fold  the  dimen- 
sions and  pleasure  of  the  world  and  the  universe,  man- 
kind, always  desirous  of  infinity,  though  incapable  of  it, 
would  quickly  find  these  new  conditions  narrow,  unlove- 
ly, and  of  little  value.  But  at  last  these  foolish  and 
haughty  demands  so  stirred  the  wrath  of  Jove  that  he 
determined,  putting  aside  all  pity,  tO'  pimish  forever  the 
human  race,  condemning  it  for  all  time  to  miseries  much 
graver  than  those  of  the  past.  To  which  end  he  not 
only  resolved  to  send  Truth  tO'  stay  among  men  for 
some  time  as  they  had  asked,  but  to  give  it  eternal 
domicil  among  them,  making  it  their  perpetual  director 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  HUMAN  RACE       265 

and  lord,  and  at  the  same  time  withdrawing  from  earth 
those  gracious  phantasms  which  he  had  placed  there. 

The  other  gods  were  astonished  at  this  decision, 
which,  it  seemed  to  them,  was  likely  to  lead  to  the  un- 
due exaltation  of  our  condition  and  the  prejudice  of 
their  superiority.  But  Jove  caused  them  to  change  their 
opinion  by  proving  to  them  that  not  all  the  genii,  even 
the  great,  are  essentially  beneficent,  and  that  such  is  not 
the  character  of  Truth,  and  that  it  would  not  produce 
the  same  results  among  men  as  among  themselves.  For 
whereas  it  made  manifest  to  the  immortals  their  own 
beatitude,  it  would,  on  the  contrary,  discover  to  men  and 
place  more  clearly  before  their  eyes  their  own  infelicity  ; 
proving  to  them,  moreover,  that  their  condition  was  no 
incidental  or  accidental  circumstance,  but  was  due  to 
the  very  nature  of  things,  and  was  such  as  they  could 
by  no  means  remedy  or  escape  from.  And,  most  human 
evils  being  of  such  a  nature  that  they  are  evil  in  the 
proportion  that  they  are  believed  to  be  so  by  those  who 
suffer  from  them,  and  more  or  less  grave  according  to 
their  opinion  of  them,  it  was  easy  to  judge  how  harmful 
the  presence  of  Truth  among  men  must  be;  since  by  its 
means  nothing  will  appear  more  profoundly  true  than 
the  falsity  of  all  human  blessings,  and  they  will  realize 
the  vanity  of  everything  except  their  own  suffering.  For 
these  reasons  they  will  be  even  bereft  of  hope,  with 
which  from  the  beginning  until  now,  more  than  with 
any  other  joy  or  comfort,  they  have  supported  life. 

And  so,  hoping  nothing,  nor  seeing  any  worthy  object 
to  strive  or  labor  for,  they  will  fall  into  such  a  state  of 
indifference  and  abhorrence  toward  all  worthy  and  eie- 


266  GIACOMO  LEOPARDI 

vated  aims  that  the  condition  of  the  living  will  differ  but 
little  from  that  of  the  dead.  But  in  this  condition  of 
despair  and  inactivity  they  will  be  still  tormented  by 
that  desire  for  boundless  felicity  which  is  inseparable 
from  their  nature,  and  which  will  sting  and  torment 
them  more  than  ever  because  it  will  no  longer  be  miti- 
gated or  distracted  by  a  variety  of  cares  or  of  active 
employments.  At  the  same  time  they  will  be  deprived 
of  the  solace  derived  from  the  imagination,  which  alone 
was  able  in  some  degree  to  satisfy  their  cravings  after 
that  impossible  and  incomprehensible  felicity  which  is 
unattainable  either  by  gods  or  men,  however  much  they 
may  yearn  for  it.  "And,"  continued  Jove,  "all  those 
semblances  of  infinity  which  I  have  placed  in  the  world 
to  illude  and  nourish  them,  according  to  their  desires, 
with  vague  and  shadowy  aspirations  will  become  inef- 
fective, because  of  the  new  ideas  and  new  methods  of 
thinking  which  Truth  will  teach  them.  So  that  if  the 
earth  and  the  universe  have  heretofore  seemed  small  to 
men,  they  will  now  appear  quite  insignificant,  since  the 
arcana  of  nature  will  be  opened  and  revealed  to  them; 
and  these,  contrary  to  their  present  expectations,  will 
seem  so  much  the  narrower  in  proportion  as  their  knowl- 
edge of  them  becomes  greater.  Finally,  its  phantasms 
having  been  withdrawn  from  the  earth  through  the 
teachings  of  Truth,  by  which  men  will  gain  full  acquain- 
tance with  the  nature  of  them,  all  valor  and  rectitude  of 
thought  and  of  deed  will  die  out  of  human  life,  and  men 
will  no  longer  pride  themselves  on  love  of  their  country, 
but  will  again,  as  at  the  beginning,  account  themselves 
citizens  of  the  world,  making  professions  of  universal 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  HUMAN  RACE       267 

love  toward  all  their  species,  though  in  reality  the  race 
will  consist  no  longer  of  communities,  but  of  individuals  ; 
and,  these  having  no  native  country  to  be  specially  loved 
and  no  foreign  one  to  hate,  everyone  will  hate  every- 
body else  and  love  himself  alone.  From  which  condi- 
tion of  things,  how  many  and  how  great  troubles  will 
surely  spring,  it  would  be  infinite  to  recount.  Yet  in 
spite  of  all  their  infelicities  men  will  not  have  courage 
enough  to  end  their  existence,  because  the  influence  of 
Truth  will  render  them  not  less  despicable  than  miser- 
able; and  adding  beyond  measure  to  the  bitterness  of 
life  will  take  from  them  the  will  to  renounce  it." 

Jove  having  thus  declared  his  intentions,  it  appeared 
to  the  gods  that  our  fate  would  be  much  more  cruel  and 
terrible  than  was  consonant  with  the  divine  mercy  to 
permit.  But  Jove  added  that  he  was  disposed,  while 
removing  all  the  other  phantasms,  to  leave  them  the  one 
called  Love,  from  which  they  would  derive  some  slight 
comfort.  And  it  would  not  be  allowed  to  Truth,  al- 
though most  powerful  and  continually  opposing  it,  to 
drive  Love  from  the  earth,  or  to  vanquish  it,  save  rarely. 
Thus  the  life  of  man,  equally  occupied  in  the  worship 
of  Love  and  of  Truth,  will  be  divided  into  two  parts, 
and  the  phantasm  and  the  genii  will  share  between  them 
the  empire  over  the  affairs  and  thoughts  of  mortals. 
Most  men  will  be  solicitous  about  these  alone,  save  some 
few  things  of  very  minor  importance.  In  old  age  the 
want  of  the  consolations  of  love  will  be  compensated 
by  a  kind  of  passive  contentment  with  existence,  such 
as  is  seen  in  the  lower  animals,  and  men  will  cherish 
life  for  its  own  sake  merely. 


368  GIACOMO  LEOPAR0I 

Thus  having  withdrawn  from  earth  the  blessed  phan- 
tasms, saving  only  Love,  the  least  noble  of  all,  Jove 
sent  among  men  Truth,  and  gave  it  with  them  perpetual 
residence  and  lordship.  Whence  followed  all  those  lam- 
entable effects  which  he  had  foreseen.  And  one  very 
marvelous  thing  resulted:  that  whereas  Truth  before  its 
arrival  on  earth,  when  it  had  no  power  or  commerce 
with  men,  had  been  honored  by  them  with  a  very  great 
number  of  temples  and  sacrifices;  now  that  it  was  come 
upon  earth  with  royal  authority,  and  began  to  be  known 
face  to  face,  it  so  afflicted  the  minds  of  men  and  smote 
them  with  such  horror  that  they,  although  forced  to  obey 
it,  altogether  refused  to  adore  it,  contrary  to  the  case 
of  all  other  celestial  beings,  which  are  the  more  vene- 
rated the  more  they  are  known.  And  while  the  phan- 
tasms of  Justice,  Glory,  Virtue,  and  Patriotism  were 
wont  to  be  most  loved  and  honored  by  those  over  whom 
their  influence  was  greatest,  this  genius  excited  the 
fiercest  maledictions  and  the  deepest  hatred  from  those 
over  whom  it  exercised  the  greatest  power.  But  not 
being  able  to  evade  or  resist  its  tyranny,  mortals  lived 
in  that  supreme  misery  which  they  endure  now,  and 
always  must  endure. 

However,  that  pity  which  in  the  minds  of  celestials 
never  is  extinguished,  moved  Jove  not  long  since  to  take 
again  into  consideration  the  unhappy  state  of  mankind, 
more  especially  because  he  saw  that  those  among  them 
who  were  most  remarkable  for  their  high  intelligence, 
their  noble  sentiments,  and  their  integrity  of  conduct 
were,  above  all  others,  afflicted  by  the  power  and  hard 
domination  of  Truth.      It  was  the  custom  of  the  gods 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  HUMAN  RACE       269 

in  the  ancient  days,  when  Justice,  Virtue,  and  the  other 
phantasms  governed  human  affairs,  to  visit  sometimes 
their  dominions,  now  one  and  now  another,  descending 
to  earth  and  manifesting  their  presence  in  various  ways, 
their  visits  always  bringing  some  great  benefit  either  to 
all  mortals  or  to  some  one  in  particular.  But  when  life 
had  once  more  become  corrupted  and  sunk  in  every  kind 
of  wickedness,  they  disdained  for  a  very  long  time  to 
hold  any  intercourse  with  men.  At  last,  Jove,  compas- 
sionating our  extreme  infelicity,  asked  the  gods  whether 
any  of  them  were  disposed  to  visit  mankind,  as  they  had 
formerly  been  accustomed  to  do,  to  comfort  them  in 
their  misery,  and  especially  those  among  them  who 
showed  themselves  deserving  of  a  better  fate.  Whereon, 
all  the  others  keeping  silent.  Love,  the  son  of  the  Celes- 
tial Venus,  like  in  name  to  the  phantasm  thus  called, 
but  in  nature,  virtue,  and  actions  most  unlike,  moved  by 
that  spirit  of  compassion  which  distinguishes  him  above 
all  the  gods,  offered  himself  to  undertake  the  mission 
proposed  by  Jove,  and  to  descend  from  heaven,  whence 
never  before  had  he  withdrawn  himself,  since  he  was  so 
ineffably  dear  to  the  gods  that  they  had  never  allowed 
him  to  depart  from  their  society  even  for  an  instant. 
It  is  true,  indeed,  that  many  of  the  ancients,  deceived 
by  the  transformations  and  divers  frauds  of  the  phan- 
tasm called  by  the  same  name,  believed  themselves  to 
have  received  from  time  to  time  tokens  of  the  presence 
of  the  great  god  among  them;  but  it  is  certain  that  he 
never  visited  mortals  before  they  were  subjected  to  the 
domination  of  Truth.  And  since  that  time  he  has  only 
very  rarely  descended  to  earth,  and  for  brief  periods; 


270  GIACOMO  LEOPARDI 

partly  because  of  the  general  unworthiness  of  the  human 
race,  and  partly  because  the  gods  could  hardly  endure 
his  absence.  When  he  does  visit  the  earth  he  takes  up 
his  abode  in  the  amiable  and  tender  hearts  of  generous 
and  magnanimous  persons,  and  diffuses  therein,  for  the 
short  period  he  reniains,  a  strange  and  wonderful  se- 
renity, and  fills  them  with  affections  so  noble,  and  of 
such  virtue  and  force,  that  they  experience  a  sensation 
hitherto  unknown  to  them,  namely,  a  feeling  of  real  be- 
atitude, and  not  a  mere  illusive  semblance  of  it.  Some- 
times, though  all  too  rarely,  he  unites  two  such  hearts, 
which  he  binds  together  by  inducing  in  them  a  recipro- 
cal ardor  and  desire.  This  happy  condition  is  often  fer- 
vently prayed  for  by  those  who  have  once  been  favored 
by  the  god  ;  but  Jove  seldom  permits  him  to  gratify  their 
desires,  because  the  felicity  arising  from  such  a  blessing 
resembles  too  nearly  that  of  the  deities  themselves.  But 
merely  to  experience  in  oneself  the  presence  of  this 
divinity  is  a  happinss  such  as  transcends  all  others  that 
have  ever  been  known  to  mankind.  Where  Love  is, 
around  him,  although  seen  only  by  those  whom  he  fa- 
vors, are  congregated  those  beautiful  phantasms  which 
Jove  banished  from  earth,  but  which  Love  brings  back 
again.  For  this  he  has  Jove's  permission;  nor  can 
Truth,  though  most  hostile  to  these  phantasms,  and 
greatly  resenting  their  reappearance,  resist  their  influ- 
ence, for  the  genii  may  not  dispute  the  will  of  the  gods. 
And  inasmuch  as  the  fates  endowed  Love  with  eternal 
youth,  so  in  consonance  with  his  nature  he  fulfils  in  some 
degree  that  first  desire  of  men,  which  was  that  they 
might  have  their  youth  restored  to  them.     For  in  the 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  HUMAN  RACE       271 

minds  which  he  elects  to  inhabit  he  revives  and  makes 
green  again,  while  he  remains  there,  the  infinite  hope 
and  the  beautiful  and  dear  imaginations  of  their  tender 
years.  Many  mortals,  ignorant  and  incapable  of  his  de- 
lights, continually  mock  and  slander  him  with  unbridled 
audacity;  but  he  is  deaf  to  their  insults,  and  if  he  heard 
he  would  not  punish  them,  being  by  nature  so  mild  and 
magnanimous.  Moreover,  the  Immortals,  satisfied  with 
the  vengeance  they  have  taken  on  all  our  species,  and 
the  incurable  misery  that  afflicts  it,  heed  not  the  particu- 
lar offenses  of  man;  nor  are  the  fraudulent  and  the  un- 
just and  the  contemners  of  the  gods  otherwise  specially 
punished  than  by  being,  even  by  their  very  nature, 
alienated  from  the  divine  grace. 


POEMS 

BY 

FRANCESCO  DALL'  ONGARO 

TRANSLATED  BY  WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS 


18  273 


INTRODUCTION 

AMONG  the  revolutionists  in  the  disastrous  year 
of  1848  in  Italy  was  Francesco  Dall'  Ongaro, 
who  was  born  in  Odezzo,  near  Venice,  in  1808. 
He  was  educated  for  the  priesthood,  and  de- 
veloped a  fine  literary  taste,  which  in  time  found  expres- 
sion in  prose  and  verse.  When  the  revolution  of  1848 
broke  out,  he  spoke  most  vigorously  in  the  cause  of 
patriotism,  and  for  this  he  fell  under  the  displeasure  of 
the  Church  authorities,  and  was  suspended  from  exer- 
cising his  priestly  functions.  He  established  a  revolu- 
tionary journal  in  Venice,  entitled  Fatti,  e  non  Parole 
("Facts,  not  Words"),  and  because  of  this,  and  of  his 
active  part  in  the  disturbances  of  that  period,  he  was 
compelled  to  leave  Italy  for  ten  years,  during  which 
time  he  produced  poems,  dramas,  novels  and  political 
works.  He  returned  to  Italy  in  1859,  and  became  Pro- 
fessor of  Literature  in  the  University  of  Florence.  He 
died  in  Naples,  January  10,  1873. 


275 


THE  DECORATION 

My  love  looks  well  under  his  helmet's  crest; 

He  went  to  war,  and  did  not  let  them  see 
His  back,  and  so  his  wound  is  in  the  breast; 

For  one  he  got  he  struck  and  gave  them  three. 
When  he  came  back  I  loved  him,  hurt  so,  best; 

He  married  me,  and  loves  me  tenderly. 

When  he  goes  by,  and  people  give  him  way, 

I  thank  God  for  my  fortune  every  day; 

When  he  goes  by,  he  seems  more  grand  and  fair 

Than  any  crossed  and  ribboned  cavalier; 

The  cavalier  grew  up  with  his  cross  on, 

And  I  know  how  my  darling's  cross  was  won! 


A  LOMBARD  WOMAN 

Here,  take  these  gaudy  robes  and  put  them  by; 

I  will  go  dress  me  black  as  widowhood; 
I  have  seen  blood  run,  I  have  heard  the  cry 

Of  him  that  struck  and  him  that  vainly  sued. 
Henceforth  no  other  ornament  will  I- 

But  on  my  breast  a  ribbon  red  as  blood. 

And  when  they  ask  what  dyed  the  silk  so  red, 
I'll  say,  "The  life-blood  of  my  brothers  dead." 
And  when  they  ask  how  it  may  cleansed  be. 
I'll  say,  "O,  not  in  river  nor  in  sea; 
Dishonor  passes  not  in  wave  nor  flood; 
My  ribbon  ye  must  wash  in  German  blood." 

277 


278  FRANCESCO  DALL'  ONGARO 


TO  A  BEAUTIFUL  WOMAN 

If  you  are  good  as  you  are  fair,  indeed, 

Keep  to  yourself  those  sweet  eyes,  I  implore  ! 

A  little  flame  bums  under  either  lid 

That  might  in  old  age  kindle  youth  once  more 

I  am  like  a  hermit  in  his  cavern  hid, 
But  can  I  look  on  you  and  not  adore? 

Fair,  if  you  do  not  mean  my  misery 

Those  lovely  eyes  lift  upward  to  the  sky; 

I  shall  believe  you  some  saint  shrined  above, 

And  may  adore  you  if  I  may  not  love; 

I  shall  believe  you  some  bright  soul  in  bliss. 

And  may  look  on  you  and  not  look  amiss. 


OPTIMISM   AND   PATRIOTISM 

AND 

NOTES   OF   TRAVEL 

BY 
GIUSEPPE  GIUSTI 

TRANSLATED  BY  SUSAN  HORNER 


279 


(è 


INTRODUCTION 

lUSTI,  the  Tuscan  critic  and  satirical  poet,  was 
born  in  Monsummano  in  1809,  a  year  that  pro- 
duced many  famous  men.  He  was  educated  in 
the  University  of  Pisa,  studied  law,  and  be- 
came an  advocate.  But  because  of  delicate  health  and 
a  disappointment  in  love  he  gave  up  his  profession.  He 
interested  himself  in  liberal  politics,  opposed  Austrian 
rule  in  Italy,  like  Manzoni  and  other  patriots,  and  was 
for  two  terms  a  member  of  the  Chamber  of  Deputies  of 
Tuscany.  In  1849  he  lived  at  Viareggio,  vainly  seek- 
ing a  restoration  to  health  by  means  of  the  celebrated 
springs,  and  in  May  of  the  next  year  he  died  in  Florence. 
His  first  work  that  attracted  attention  was  a  poem  en- 
titled //  Dies  Ires,  on  the  death  of  the  Emperor  Francis 
I  in  1835.  His  writings,  which  were  popular  throughout 
Italy,  were  at  first  published  anonymously;  but  in  1846 
he  gathered  and  published  them  in  his  own  name,  and 
in  1852  a  more  complete  edition  was  printed  in  Florence. 
An  eminent  critic  draws  this  parallel:  "The  Italy  of  the 
time  stands  between  Leopardi  and  Giusti,  like  Garrick 
between  tragedy  and  comedy.  Giusti's  gifts  were  less 
sublime  than  Leopardi's,  but  not  less  original.  What 
Leopardi  was  to  the  Italian  language  in  its  most  classi- 
cal form.  Giusti  was  to  the  peculiar  niceties  of  the  most 
idiomatic  Tuscan.     What  Leopardi  was  to  the  most  eie-' 

281 


282  INTRODUCTION 

vated  description  of  poetry,  Giusti  was  to  political  sa- 
tire. Indeed,  he  was  more  ;  for  Leopardi  merely  carried 
recognized  form  to  more  consummate  perfection,  while 
Giusti's  style  was  actually  created  by  him."  Flamini 
tells  us  that  "the  proper  names  of  some  of  Giusti's  char- 
acters have  become  common  names  in  a  way;  as  Girella, 
Bécero,  and  that  Gingillino  whom  the  author,  with  much 
of  Parini's  instructive  irony,  teaches  how  to  get  an  of- 
fice from,  the  Government;  and  many  phrases  and  sen- 
tences that  are  common  property  made  their  first  ap- 
pearance in   Giusti's  satirical  poems." 

The  little  treatise  on  optimism  and  patriotism  which 
we  present  was  written  in  1840  in  a  letter  to  Giusti's 
friend  Silvio  Giannini,  where  it  is  incidental  to  a  liter- 
ary criticism.  Giusti's  biography  has  been  written  in 
English  by  Susan  Homer  (London,  1864). 


OPTIMISM  AND  PATRIOTISM 

^^'à  WAS  agreeably  surprised  by  finding  a  friend  of 

^1  mine  in  the  translator  of  the  Letters  of  Panagiota 
^PP  Su.':co,  and  in  the  author  of  the  lyric  scene.  I 
made  the  acquaintance  of  this  distinguished 
young  man  in  Florence,  when  he  came  from  Naples  to 
publish  a  historical  work.  It  appears  to  me  that  Greek 
literature  may  have  considerable  influence  in  rousing 
the  inhabitants  of  the  Ionian  Islands,  to  whom  every 
word  will  recall  a  fact,  a  hope,  a  desire  ;  but  Italians, 
although  they  feel  the  same  desire  for  liberty  as  the 
Greeks,  have  no  general  or  recent  events  in  their  history 
to  remember,  and  would  therefore  remain  cold  while 
reading  this  poetic  prose.  When  a  high-flown  style 
does  not  meet  with  a  corresponding  state  of  mind  in 
those  to  whom  it  is  addressed,  the  imagination  and  the 
heart  are  silent,  and  such  a  style  has  then  a  more  freez- 
ing and  pedantic  effect  that  mere  rhetoric  and  gram- 
mar. I  wish,  once  for  all,  that  these  declamations  and 
expressions  of  despondency  would  cease.  At  thirty 
years  of  age,  anyone  that  has  not  been  hermetically 
sealed  in  an  atmosphere  of  blessed  hallucinations  must 
feel  only  too  well  that  he  has  lost  the  illusions  of  his 
youth;  but  it  appears  to  me  an  absurd  contradiction  to 
pretend  that  the  world  is  advancing  and  at  the  same 

283 


284  GIUSEPPE  GIUSTI 

time  to  despair  of  what  has  been  done  and  what  has  yet 
to  be  done.  Few  of  us  Italians,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  know 
the  meaning  of  political  passions.  Many  of  us,  either 
from  a  desire  to  follow  the  fashion,  or  from  ambition, 
or  idleness,  or  to  court  popularity,  talk  of  country;  but 
who  knows  what  kind  of  idea  they  attach  to  the  word? 
The  variety  of  interpretations  it  has  received  proves  that 
few  or  none  comprehend  its  true  meaning.  To  me  it 
is  as  a  god;  it  is  felt,  and  not  understood.  The  Greeks 
heard  it,  and  sacrificed  to  their  idol;  they  may  there- 
fore now  read  and  respond.  We  can  only  read  by  the 
intellect,  and  the  intellect  is  too  severe  a  judge.  I  may 
be  wrong,  but  it  appears  to  me  that  we,  in  these  days, 
must  make  up  our  treasure  out  of  family  affections  ;  first 
educate,  then  instruct;  become  good  fathers  before  we 
become  good  citizens.  Let  us  not  put  the  cart  before 
the  horse;  or,  while  we  are  composing  beautiful  sonnets 
on  Italy,  Italy  herself  will  forever  remain  patched  like 
a  harlequin's  dress. 

Poetry  tacked  on  to  prose — ^be  it  said  between  our- 
selves— walks  upon  stilts;  and  it  is  easy  to  perceive  that 
the  author  of  this  work  has  not  had  much  practise  in 
versification.  The  word  cimitcrio  ["cemetery"],  given 
as  the  title,  conveys  a  sad  and  funereal  idea  and  pre- 
pares the  reader  for  something  grave  and  solemn.  But 
the  meter  chosen  by  the  author  does  not  harmonize  with 
this  idea,  as  it  summons  us  to  meet  death  in  a  light  ver- 
sification. All  analogy  between  the  meter  and  the  sub- 
ject is  ignored  ;  and  wherever  this  rule  is  ignored  it  will 
be  felt.  We  may  play  lively  airs  on  any  instrument, 
and  on  all  chords;  but  to  accompany  an  elegy  on  the 


OPTIMISM  AND  PATRIOTISM  285 

jewsharp  and  kettledrum  is  fit  only  for  a  Carnival  jest. 
I  am  sorry  that  my  friend  should  have  followed  the 
stream  when  writing  on  these  subjects.  We  have 
enough  of  rhyming  hypochondriasm  that  reaches  us 
from  beyond  the  Alps;  and  if  the  gentlemen  at  the  head 
of  our  finances  would  put  a  duty  on  these  importations, 
the  treasury  would  be  better  filled  and  we  be  less  deplet- 
ed. I  do  not  say  that,  because  I  perhaps  am  myself 
bom  a  buffoon,  we  ought  all  to  imitate  Pitiich;  but  this 
playing  with  dead  men's  bones,  like  Shakespeare  in  his 
tragedy,  appears  to  me  an  exotic  and  false  taste,  par- 
ticularly in  one  who  has  been  reared  under  the  sun  of 
southern  Italy. 


286  GIUSEPPE  GIUSTI 


NOTES  OF  TRAVEL 
(1844) 

/•^y  SAW  Siena  again  with  the  pleasure  that  one  feels 
^1  at  beholding  a  longed-for  friend.  As  we  ap- 
^W^  proached  Rome,  and  when  still  at  some  dis- 
tance, I  fancied  I  should  see  sarcophagi,  or  the 
ruins  of  ancient  buildings;  but  imagination  and  desire 
strove  in  vain  to  discover  them  in  a  miserable  hovel  or 
a  wretched  tavern.  What  a  state  of  depopulation  and 
abandonment!  The  ancient  empress  of  the  world  is 
surrounded  by  a  desert.  Here  and  there  we  met  with 
a  tree,  flourishing  just  enough  to  prove  that  the  land 
would  yield  to  cultivation  if  the  hand  of  man  would  lend 
itself  for  this  purpose.  The  vctttiriiw  and  my  mother's 
maid,  accustomed  to  see  not  a  rood  of  land  left  bare  at 
home,  exclaimed  every  instant,  "If  we  could  only  have 
this  in  Tuscany  !"  Here  we  are  at  last  in  Rome.  The 
elevation  of  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's  is  not  graceful,  like 
that  of  Brunelleschi,  which  is  indeed  a  miracle  of  art. 
From  a  distance  Rome  appears  scattered  in  all  directions. 
St.  Peter's  is  vast  and  rich,  but  there  is  too  much  dis- 
play of  wealth.  In  the  modern  buildings  there  is  gen- 
erally pomp  and  space  ;  but  true  magnificence,  grandeur, 
and  the  marvelous  are  confined  to  the  remains  of  antiq- 
uity.   The  Colosseum  is  something  impossible  to  con- 


NOTES  OF  TRAVEL  287 

ceive.  It  were  as  well  to  visit  it  last  of  all,  because  it 
diminishes  the  value  of  everything  else.  Arches  and 
columns  may  be  seen  everywhere,  but  in  the  Colosseum 
you  see  the  Roman  people.  The  descriptions  of  this 
building  and  of  what  was  enacted  here  appear  the  mere 
dreams  of  antiquaries  and  romance-writers;  but,  once 
seen,  we  believe  even  more  than  we  have  been  told.  I 
left  it  so  filled  with  reflections,  so  deeply  penetrated 
with  the  sight,  that  all  the  rest  appeared  as  nothing.  I 
believe  I  remained  two  hours  without  ascending  to  the 
top,  and,  fortunately,  nO'  one  else  was  there;  for  a  swal- 
low-tailed coat  would  have  disturbed  me  among  the 
togas  and  the  visions  in  which  I  lived  at  that  moment. 
I  seemed  to  behold  an  immense  population,  full  of  valor 
and  armed  with  swords,  crowding  up  those  steps,  and 
thousands  of  faces  like  ours,  one  above  another,  looking 
down  from  those  benches  at  the  gladiators  and  the  wild 
beasts.  And  I  saw  the  wild  beasts  themselves  rushing 
out  of  those  dens,  and  rivers  of  water  gushing  forth 
from  those  subterranean  conduits,  and  I  heard  the  ap- 
plause and  the  groans.  The  visions  I  had  conjured  up 
were  too  vivid  for  the  grass  growing  amidst  the  ruins 
to  dispel. 

Pompeii  stands  alone  oi  its  kind  ;  but  the  pictures  and 
the  stuccoes  remind  one  of  the  effeminate  days  of  Rome. 
I  must  confess  that,  judging  by  the  beauty  of  the  fres- 
coes and  paintings  here,  the  arts  have  hardly  yet  re- 
traced their  steps.  It  is  an  unspeakable  annoyance  to 
have  one  of  the  usual  guides  at  your  side  to  inform  you, 
here   Sallust  walked;   here  Cicero   washed    his    hands; 


288  GIUSEPPE  GIUSTI 

there  Livia  combed  her  hair,  etc.     What  can  it  signify 
to  me  to  conjecture  all  this,  when  I  know  for  a  certainty 
that  the  Romans  inhabited  this  place  and  left  the  serious 
cares  of  the  Republic  and  the  fatigues  of  war  to  seek 
refreshment  amid  these  delights?     The  ruins  speak  for 
themselves;  the  heart  understands,  and  that  is  enough. 
For  the  rest,  the  figures  or  decorations,  when  they  are 
found  entire,  appear  as  fresh  as  if  made  yesterday,  if  the 
merits  of  the  work  did  not  remind  us  that  we  are  below 
ground.      As  reverence   for  authority  increases   in  the 
ratio  of  distance,  so  the  estimation  and  care  for  antique 
works  is  greater  according  as  we  are  removed  from  the 
epoch  when  they  were  called  into  existence.      As  they 
are  consumed  by  time  they  appear  to  grow  in  greatness, 
and  a  ruin,  a  relic,  a  fragment  speak  more  to  the  inquir- 
ing mind  than  the  beauty  of  an  entire  monument  in  its 
magnificence.      The  skeletons  are  all  that  remain;  but 
as  the  beauty  and  strength  of  a  man  can  be  proved  by 
a  human  skeleton,  so  the  beauty  and  grandeur  of  these 
works  is  proved  by  one  of  these  naked  and  worn  remains. 

In  Naples,  until  this  moment,  I  have  seen  nothing  of 
works  of  art;  but  the  men  with  whom  I  have  become 
acquainted,  and  the  nature  by  which  I  am  surrounded, 
fill  me  with  joy  and  consolation. 

This  is  a  country  that  has  in  it  much  that  is  good, 
much  that  is  bad.  I  do  not  know  to  which  side  the 
balance  leans;  but  at  all  events  one  sees  and  feels  here 
that  there  is  something  great  and  promising.  I  lament 
that  habit  of  scanning  one  another's  faults,  even  where 
we  agree  in  opinion,  which  is  so  injurious  to  us  and  so 


NOTES  OF  TRAVEL  289 

much  to  be  regretted  by  all  who  love  Italy.  I  am  at 
great  pains  to  converse  with  every  one  I  meet,  and  am 
always  confirmed  in  the  old  and  bitter  truth  that  there 
is  a  want  of  understanding  among  ourselves.  Here,  too, 
that  bad  habit  prevails  of  calling  prudence  fear,  and  au- 
dacity courage;  but  we  must  treat  them  with  charity, 
because  their  wounds  are  fresh  and  their  passions  dark 
and  present. 

Of  Rome  I  may  say  I  saw  nothing  but  the  stones,  but 
stones  full  of  life  and  history.  The  Campo  Vaccino,  the 
Colosseum,  and  a  thousand  other  remains  of  Roman 
greatness  are  beyond  all  imagination.  Here  I  have  seen 
both  stones  and  men.  The  bay  is  worth  seeing  for  it- 
self. Pompeii  stands  alone  in  the  world,  as  well  as  the 
museum  of  bronzes  and  the  objects  found  there  and  in 
Herculaneum.  The  coast  from  Pasilippo  to  Cape  Mi- 
senum  is  a  succession  of  wonders.  Pozzuoli,  Baia  and 
Cuma  retain  only  the  vestige  of  Roman  luxury  and 
splendor;  but  that  little  is  enough  to  compensate  for  all 
we  have  lost.  I  examined  these  places  with  a  weary 
and  almost  dull  spirit,  from  my  infirm  health;  but  the 
sight  of  them  refreshed  my  soul.  The  only  annoyance 
is  the  tiresome  commentary  dinned  into  your  ears  by  the 
guardians  of  the  several  places,  a  commentary  that 
leaves  your  brain  in  the  state  in  which  it  is  left  by  the 
commentators  on  Dante.  I  do  believe  that,  between 
Rome  and  Sicily,  more  stones  have  been  baptized  than 
men.  Another  distressing  thing  is  the  restoration  of 
antique  statues  and  bronzes.  They  have  attached  to  a 
wonderful  torso  of  Antinoiis  arms  and  legs  that  look 
like  gloves  and  stockings  filled  with  flour.       This  want 

19 


290  GIUSEPPE  GIUSTI 

of  reverence  for  ancient  art  can  exist  only  in  the  dull 
animal  souls  of  presumptuous  and  clumsy  artisans;  true 
artists  would  spurn  such  sacrilege.  Michelangelo  alone, 
in  his  restoration  of  the  Dying  Gladiator  and  of  the 
Laocoon,  has  equaled  the  chisel  of  the  ancients;  yet, 
when  asked  to  restore  the  legs  of  the  Farnese  Hercules, 
he  at  first  refused  ;  v/hen  pressed,  he  complied  ;  but  when 
about  to  fix  them  in  their  place,  he  dashed  them  to 
pieces  in  anger  and  expiation.  Yet  he  was  the  sculp- 
tor of  Moses,  of  Night,  of  //  Pensiero,  and  of  other  trifles 
of  the  kind.  For  him  whO'  has  eyes  to  see,  a  fragment 
is  enough;  and  he  who  cannot  construct  an  entire  figure 
out  of  this,  and  fill  up  what  is  wanting  for  himself,  need 
not  go  and  see.  Among  more  recent  works,  I  have 
seen  most  beautiful  frescoes  by  II  Zingaro,  although 
they  have  been  misused  by  time  and  suffered  from  ne- 
glect. We  use  such  treasures  as  the  prodigal  uses  his 
pockets,  taking  care  of  them  only  when  they  are  empty. 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  THE  BUCENTAUR 

BY 

ALEARDO  ALEARDI 

TRANSLATED    BY    CATHERINE    MARY   PHILLIMORE 


291 


INTRODUCTION 

A  LEARDO  ALEARDI  was  born  near  Verona  in 
1812.  He  received  a  thorough  education  in 
science,  philosophy  and  law.  He  had  hardly 
reached  manhood  when  he  became  deeply  in- 
terested in  politics  with  relation  to  Italy's  struggle  for 
freedom.  His  first  poetic  work,  Anialda  di  Roca,  which 
he  published  at  the  age  of  thirty,  revealed  his  patriotic 
principles  and  rendered  him  obnoxious  to  the  Austrian 
Government.  It  is  founded  on  this  historic  incident: 
In  July,  1570,  the  Turks  besieged  Nicosia,  the  capital 
city  of  Cyprus,  which  was  so  bravely  defended  by  the 
Greeks  that  fifteen  assaults  were  bloodily  repelled.  But 
after  a  siege  of  two  months  the  Turks  succeeded  in  en- 
tering the  city.  They  are  said  to  have  put  fifteen  thou- 
sand of  the  citizens  to  death,  and  sold  many  into  slavery. 
One  ship  was  loaded  with  beautiful  Cypriote  women, 
whom  their  captors  intended  as  a  present  to  the  Sultan. 
Among  them  was  Arnalda  di  Roca,  who,  realizing  the 
hideous  fate  that  was  in  store  for  them,  set  fire  to  the 
magazine  and  blew  up  the  ship.  "This,"  says  the  his- 
torian, "was  the  last  flame  that  celebrated  the  obsequies 
of  what  was  once  the  capital  of  a  flourishing  kingdom." 
The  poem  entitled  The  Voyage  of  the  Biicentaur,  which 
is  supposed  to  have  been  written  on  the  anniversary 
(September  gth)  of  the  fall  of  Nicosia,  represents  the 
ghost  of  the  Bucentaur,  with  a  company  of  the  spirits 

293 


294  INTRODUCTION 

of  doges  and  statesman,  as  making  a  midnight  voyage 
in  the  Adriatic  and  the  ^gean,  visiting  the  scenes  of 
Grecian  triumphs  and  disasters.  The  poet  was  of  a 
noble  house,  but  was  the  last  of  his  line.  Verona  was 
the  headquarters  of  the  Austrian  Government  in  Italy 
during  his  young  manhood,  and  this  circumstance  prob- 
ably intensified  his  patriotic  impulses.  At  all  events, 
he  devoted  his  poetic  powers  to  the  service  of  his  coun- 
try, and  his  poems  were  at  first  circulated  in  manuscript 
only.  While  he  was  still  at  the  University  of  Padua, 
he  lost  his  mother,  to  whom,  in  his  profound  sorrow,  he 
paid  this  tribute: 

Didst  thou  not  seem  to  me 

As  some  fair  pilgrim  passing  through  the  earth; 

Or  as  the  sun's  sweet  ray  immaculate 

Upon  a  stagnant  waste;  or  like  the  leaves 

Of  a  most  fragrant  rose,  too  quickly  scattered 

Upon  the  stream  of  time  and  borne  away? 

Yet  in  the  inner  chamber  of  my  heart 

The  perfume  lingers  still.     From  thee  first  came 

The  fount  of  poetry  that  springs  within; 

And  if  perchance  my  Italy  should  shed. 

Some  leaves  from  Fame's  bright  wreath  upon  my  brow. 

The  laurel  crown  shall  wreathe  thy  sepulcher, 

For  it  is  thine. 

His  works  include  Lc  Prhne  Storie,  Il  Monte  Cìrceìlo, 
and  Lettere  a  Maria.  Maria  was  a  young  lady  with 
whom  he  was  hopelessly  in  love;  and  he  burned  the 
manuscript  of  two  other  poetical  epistles  addressed  to 
her,  because  he  thought  they  failed  of  appreciation, 
though  he  considered  them  his  best  work.  When  his 
appeals  for  liberty  became  too  loud,  the  Government 
imprisoned  him,  as  it  had  imprisoned  Silvio  Pellico,  and 


INTRODUCTION  295 

his  treatment  and  sufferings  were  similar  to  Pellico's. 
In  prison  he  composed  poems,  which  he  carried  in  his 
memory,  as  he  had  no  materials  for  writing.  After  his 
pardon  and  release  in  1859  he  wrote  a  poem  entitled  Le 
Città  Italiane  marinare  e  commercanti.  He  was  for  a  short 
time  a  member  of  the  Italian  parliament  and  a  professor 
in  the  University  of  Florence.  But  he  cared  little  for 
anything  but  poetry.  Death  came  to  him  in  his  sleep, 
in  the  night  of  July  18,  1878.  His  collected  works  were 
printed  in  Florence  that  year.  His  biography  has  been 
written  by  Prampolini  and  others. 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  THE  BUCENTAUR 

This,  then,  is  the  day  that  Cyprus  fell. 

And  by  that  fall  a  rare  and  priceless  pearl 

Passed  from  the  ducal  diadem,  to  deck 

The  jewel-hilted  sword,  the  reeking  blade 

Of  yon  Byzantine  lord!      Lo!  yestere'en 

In  the  dead  hour  of  midnight,  solemn,  still, 

While  the  forsaken  gondolas  lay  chained 

To  the  deserted  shore,  nor  sound  nor  tread 

Broke  the  deep  silence  of  the  quiet  streets, 

The  phantom  semblance  of  the  golden  ship 

Bucentaur  rose  and  glided  by.      Her  sails 

Rent  standards  ;  and  her  oars  the  rusting  halberds 

Of  a  bygone  age;  still  from  the  high-curved  provir 

The  dying  lion  watched  the  fated  course 

Whose  broken  wing  flapped  as  an  unfilled  sail 

In  that  dead  calm.      The  marble  porticoes 

And  stately  steps,  churches,  and  palaces. 

Appeared  as  if  alive  with  shadowy  forms 

Rich  in  the  garb  of  Doge  or  Senator; 

Who  ever,  as  the  phantom  ship  drew  nigh. 

Went  forth  tO'  meet  it,  o'er  those  dark,  still  depths 

Passing  with  trackless  feet.      They  reach  the  deck, 

Weird  welcome  interchanged;  the  ship  glides  on. 

But,  as  they  pass  the  point  where  dash  and  foam 

The  breakers  'gainst  the  giant  marble  walls, 

A  gale  mysterious  arose,  and  whence  it  came 

None  knew;  which  urg'd  them  swift  as  lightning's  flash 

Through  the  dark  clouds  of  night.   Like  frighted  steeds 

The  Istrian  shores  flee  from  their  sight,  and  next 

Pola's  deserted  amphitheater, 

Dalmatia's  rock-bound  coast:  along  the  line 

Point  after  point  appears,  recedes,  is  gone: 

Oniy  one  fragrant  breath  Corc5n:a  wafts 

From  valleys  fair,  and  orange-laden  groves. 

297 


298  ALEARDO  ALEARDI 

Still  must  the  ship  drive  onward  in  her  course, 

And  ever  as  she  speeds  past  cape  and  gulf, 

Scenes  of  Venetian  combat  oft  renewed, 

Rise  as  the  witness  of  those  sturdy  fights 

Tom  planks,  masts,  oars,  and  figure-head, 

Forth  from  their  sandy  grave,  hid  fathoms  deep, 

And  follow,  swimming,  in  the  phantom's  wake. 

But  as  they  reach  Lepanto's  well-known  shore, 

Behold  Lepanto's  towers;  as  if  by  touch 

Of  magic  wand,  that  strong  wind  fell;  the  shades 

In  serried  ranks  drew  to  the  vessel's  side. 

But  vain  the  menace  of  the  outstretched  arm, 

And  vain  the  semblance  of  the  glittering  blade 

Piercing  the  gloom;  while  through  Morea's  gulf, 

Epirus's  long  shore,  the  muttering  sound 

Of  imprecation,  fierce  and  deep  outburst. 

In  agonized  laments,  which  fill  the  air. 

The  breeze  returning  gathered  up  the  sound 

And  bore  it  onward.      Onward  stood  the  ship 

Devouring  spaces  in  her  headlong  course; 

Thy  swelling  hills,  fair  Cythera,  they  pass, 

Where  the  soft  murmur  of  the  turtle-dove 

Wakes  gentle  echoes  in  thy  myrtle  groves, 

And  Crete,  where  still,  alas  !  unsepulchred. 

Her  hundred  cities  lie.      The  eyrie  next 

Of  Christian  eagle,  Rhodes,  whose  battlements. 

Once  mightiest,  now  black  and  shattered  stand. 

And,  if  in  midnight  voyage  some  passing  bark 

Come  'neath  that  fort,  her  sails  might  haply  catch 

The  dim,  faint  outline  of  the  warrior  souls 

Keeping  a  ghostly  watch;  the  crew,  dismayed, 

Seized  with  a  mystic  sense  of  loss  and  death, 

Pause  awe-struck,  shivering  in  the  cold  night  breeze. 

Cyprus  at  length  stretched  forth  her  rocky  arms. 

The  ship  ran  in,  her  phantom  voyage  o'er, 

And  the  sad  shades  dispersed  throughout  the  isle. 


POEMS 

BY 

GIOSUÈ  CARDUCCI 

TRANSLATED  BY  G.  A.  GREENE 


209 


INTRODUCTION 

y>^N  the  27th  of  July,  1836,  was  bom,  at  Valdi- 
fl  I  ~B  castello,  near  Pietrasanta  in  Tuscany,  the 
\F  ^  future  leader  of  the  Neo-classic  school  in  Ital- 
ian literature.  Giosuè  Carducci  came  of  an 
old  and  honorable  Florentine  family,  though  his  child- 
hood was  passed  in  the  Pisan  Maremma,  where  his 
father  was  engaged  as  a  physician.  He  learned  at  an 
early  age  to  love  the  Latin  classics,  but  the  tendency  of 
the  time  was  to  admire  the  so-called  "Romantic  School," 
and  this  he  followed  in  his  youthful  attempts  to  imitate 
Giusti,  Berchet,  and  others  of  that  group.  In  1849  the 
young  Carducci  went  to  Florence,  where  he  entered  the 
Scuole  Pie,  and  began  a  broader  study  of  literature, 
which  introduced  him  to  Victor  Hugo  and  other  modern 
realists.  By  this  time  the  literature  of  the  new  Italy 
needed  a  fresh  voice  to  celebrate  her  liberty,  after  so 
many  years  of  submissive  slavery.  She  wanted  a 
poet  that  would  sing  in  a  strain  of  challenge,  joy,  and 
strength,  drowning  the  plaintive,  despairing  wail  of  the 
Romanticists.  Carducci's  first  volume  of  collected 
poems  appeared  in  1857,  when  he  was  in  San  Miniato 
as  a  teacher  of  rhetoric.  Shortly  after  its  publication 
he  returned  to  Florence  and  became  a  regular  contribu- 
tor to  the  magazines  and  journals,  and  a  member  of  a 
circle  of  young  writers  whose  endeavor  was  to  restore 
to  Italian  literature  the  form  of  the  ancient  classics,  and 

301 


302  INTRODUCTION 

to  overthrow  the  sentimental  romanticism  of  the  early 
part  of  the  nineteenth  century.  During  the  time  from 
1 86 1  to  1877  Carducci  wrote  much  that  was  destined  to 
establish  his  fame  as  the  most  notable  of  the  poets  of 
modem  Italy,  including  the  Levia  Grazia,  the  Decennalia, 
and  the  Odi  barbare.  Strength  and  ardor,  graceful  elo- 
quence, exquisite  melody,  faultless  meter,  and  the  power 
of  representing  nature  in  its  most  poetic  aspect,  are  the 
striking  characteristics  of  Carducci's  style,  which  formed 
the  noble  model  for  many  worthy  followers  belonging 
to  a  younger  generation.  He  was  elected  to  the  lower 
Chamber  as  an  earnest  Republican,  but  later  he  sup- 
ported the  constitutional  monarchy,  and  became  a  Sen- 
ator of  the  kingdom.  In  1906  the  Nobel  prize  for  emi- 
nence in  literature  was  conferred  upon  him,  at  the  same 
time  that  the  Nobel  peace  prize  was  awarded  to  Presi- 
dent Roosevelt.  The  Italian  poet  died  February  15, 
1907,  and  was  buried  in  Santa  Croce  at  Florence. 


THE  OX 

I  love  thee,  pious  Ox;  a  gentle  feeling 
Of  vigor  and  of  peace  thou  giv'st  my  heart. 
How  solemn,  like  a  monument,  thou  art! 
Over  wide,  fertile  fields  thy  calm  gaze  stealing! 
Unto  the  yoke  with  grave  contentment  kneeling, 
To  man's  quick  work  thou  dost  thy  strength  impart  : 
He  shouts  and  goads,  and,  answering  thy  smart, 
Thou  tum'st  on  him  thy  patient  eyes  appealing. 
From  thy  broad  nostrils,  black  and  wet,  arise 
Thy  breath's  soft  fumes  ;  and  on  the  still  air  swells 
Like  happy  hymn,  thy  lowing's  mellow  strain. 
In  the  grave  sweetness  of  thy  tranquil  eyes 
Of  emerald,  broad  and  still  reflected,  dwells 
All  the  divine  green  silence  of  the  plain. 

THE  FLEETING  HOUR 

O  now  so  long-desired,  thou  verdurous  solitude, 
Far  from  all  rumor  of  mankind! 

Hither  we  come  companioned  by  two  friends  divine, 
By  Wine  and  Love,  O  Lydia! 

Ah,  see  how  laughs  in  sparkling  goblets  crystalline 
Lyasus,  god  eternal-young! 
How  in  thy  dazzling  eyes,  resplendent  Lydia, 
Love  triumphs  and  unbinds  himself! 

Far  down  the  sun  peeps  in  beneath  the  trellised  vine, 
And  rosily  reflected  gleams 

Within  my  glass;  golden  it  shines,  and  tremulous, 
Among  thy  tresses,  Lydia. 

303 


304  GIOSUÈ  CARDUCCI 

Among  thy  raven  tresses,  O  white  Lydia, 
One  pale-hued  rose  is  languishing; 
Softly  upon  my  heart  a  sudden  sadness  falls, 
Falls  to  restrain  Love's  rising  fires. 

Tell  me,  wherefore  beneath  the  flaming  sunset  sky 
Mysterious  lamentations  moan 

Up  from  the  sea  below?     Lydia,  what  songs  are  they 
Yon  pines  unto  each  other  sing? 

See  with  what  deep  desire  yon  darkening  hills  outstretch 

Their  summits  to  the  sinking  sun  ; 

The  shadow  grows,  and  wraps  them  round;  they  seem 

to  ask 
The  last  sweet  kiss,  O  Lydia! 

I  seek  thy  kisses  when  the  shade  envelops  me, 
Lyaeus,  thou  who  givest  joy; 
I  seek  thy  loving  eyes,  resplendent  Lydia, 
When  great  Hyperion  falls. 

Now  falls,  now  falls  the  imminent  hour.    O  roseate  lips, 
Unclose!     O  blossom  of  the  soul, 
O  flower  of  all  desire,  open  thy  petals  wide! 
Beloved  arms,  unclose  yourselves! 


RUSITC   CHIVALRY 

(Cavalleria  Rusticana) 

AND 

THE   WOLF 

(La  Lupa) 

BY 

GIOVANNI  VERGA 

TRANSLATED  BY  DORA  KNOWLTON  RANOUS 


20  805 


INTRODUCTION 

^•V^ISTORIC  Sicily,  now  comparatively  little  known 
^1^  and  seldom  visited,  finds  the  delineator  of  her 
Aa  jI  primitive  people,  their  crude  life  and  turbulent 
'  passions,  in  Giovanni  Verga,  who  was  born  in 
Catania  in  1840.  His  early  years  were  passed  in  Italy, 
chiefly  at  Florence  and  Milan.  He  returned  to  his  na- 
tive region,  and  made  a  close  study  of  the  Sicilian  pea- 
sant class,  beginning  his  literary  work  in  that  field  with 
Ned  da,  though  this  was  preceded  by  The  Story  of  a 
Blackbird  (a  girl  immured  in  a  convent)  and  various 
short  stories.  Nedda  is  a  realistic  picture  of  the  hard 
Sicilian  peasant  life,  and  this  was  followed  by  Vaga- 
bondaggio ("Tramps"),  /  Malavoglia,  La  Lupa  ("The 
Wolf"),  and  Cavalleria  Rusticana  ("Rustic  Chivalry"), 
known  all  over  the  world,  wherever  Italian  m^usic  is 
played  or  sung,  from  the  exquisite  operatic  setting  the 
tale  received  at  the  hands  of  Pietro  Mascagni.  The 
story  of  La  Lupa  was  also  converted  into  a  well-known 
opera  by  Giacomo  Puccini.  These  portrayals  of  the  fierce 
yet  childlike  Sicilians,  with  their  oriental  fatalism  and 
their  endurance  of  seemingly  intolerable  conditions,  are 
given  with  the  faithfulness  of  a  dispassionate  observer 
and  the  skill  of  an  artist,  and  are  a  record  for  all  time  of 
the  social  side  of  Sicilian  rustic  life. 


S07 


RUSTIC  CHIVALRY 

(Cavalleria  Rusticana) 

^«rURIDDU  MACCA,  the  son  of  the  Gnà,  (Sig- 
/  J  nora)   Nunzia,  after  he  had  served  his  time  in 

^^^  the  army,  was  accustomed  to  swagger  through 
the  public  square  of  his  native  town  every  Sun- 
day, with  the  proud  strut  of  a  peacock;  he  wore  his 
bersagliere  uniform  and  red  cap,  and  looked  not  unlike 
the  familiar  figure  of  the  fortune-tellers,  who  stand  at 
the  street-corner  with  their  cage  full  of  canaries. 

The  girls  threw  sly  glances  at  him  from  beneath  their 
little  mantillas,  as  they  went  to  mass,  and  the  small 
boys  buzzed  around  him  like  flies. 

He  had  also  brought  back  with  him  from  the  army  a 
pipe  ornamented  with  a  carving  of  the  King  on  horse- 
back, which  was  so  natural  that  it  looked  exactly  like 
life;  and  he  always  scratched  his  matches  on  the  seat 
of  his  trousers,  lifting  his  leg  as  if  he  were  about  to  kick 
someone. 

Notwithstanding  all  this,  Lola,  the  daughter  of  Mas- 
saro Angelo,  had  not  allowed  herself  to  be  seen  either 
at  mass  or  on  her  balcony,  because  she  was  betrothed  to 
a  man  from  Licodia,  a  well-to-do-carter,  who  kept  four 
Sortino  mules  in  his  stable. 

When  Turiddu  first  heard  about  this  man,  he  swore 
by  all  the  devils  to  disembowel  him,  to  kill  him — that 
rascal  from  Licodia!      But  he  did  not  do  any  such  ter- 

309 


310  GIOVANNI  VERGA 

rible  thing;  he  contented  himself  with  singing  all  the 
malicious  songs  he  knew  under  the  window  of  the 
charmer. 

"Has  Gnà  Nunzia's  Turiddu  nothing  else  to  do  than 
to  pass  his  nights  in  singing  like  a  lonely  bird?"  in- 
quired the  neighbors  after  a  time. 

Finally  he  met  Lola  one  day  when  she  was  returning 
from  the  pilgrimage  to  the  Madonna  del  Pericolo;  but 
when  she  saw  him  she  neither  blushed  nor  turned  pale, 
bearing  herself  with  an  air  of  perfect  unconcern. 

"Oh,  Turiddu,  I  heard  from  some  one  that  you  had 
been  at  home  since  the  first  of  the  month." 

"And  I  have  heard  from  some  one  of  quite  a  different 
matter,"  he  retorted.  "Is  it  true  that  you  are  about  to 
marry  Alfio  the  carter?" 

"If  it  is  the  will  of  God,"  Lola  replied,  drawing  the 
two  corners  of  her  kerchief  under  her  chin. 

"The  will  of  God  moves  on  springs  to  please  your 
will!  And  was  it  the  will  of  God  that  I  should  return 
from  so  long  a  distance  to  hear  this  fine  piece  of  news, 
Lola?" 

The  poor  youth  still  tried  to  keep  up  a  show  of  wrath  ; 
but  his  voice  was  hoarse,  and  he  walked  behind  the 
young  girl,  with  a  toss  of  his  head  that  made  the  tassel 
on  his  cap  swing  from  one  shoulder  to  the  other.  To 
do  justice  to  Lola,  she  felt  very  sorry  to  see  him  with 
such  a  long  face,  and  she  had  not  the  heart  to  deceive 
him  with  flattering  words. 

"Now,  listen,  Turiddu,"  she  said  at  last;  "let  me  go 
on  and  join  my  companions.  What  will  they  say  in  the 
village  if  anyone  should  see  me  in  your  company?" 


RUSTIC  CHIVALRY  311 

"You  are  right,"  Turiddu  answered.  "Now  that  you 
are  betrothed  to  Alfio,  who  has  four  mules  in  his  stable, 
it  is  wise  not  to  let  people  begin  to  talk  about  you.  But 
my  poor  little  mother  has  been  forced  to  sell  our  bay 
mule,  and  that  little  vineyard  of  ours  on  the  street  be- 
sides, while  I  was  away  in  the  army.  The  time  when 
Berta  spun  is  past  and  gone,  and  you  no  longer  remem- 
ber the  days  when  we  used  to  talk  at  the  window  that 
looks  into  the  courtyard — when  you  gave  me  your  hand- 
kerchief before  I  went  away.  And  God  knows  how 
many  tears  I  wiped  away  with  it  at  being  obliged  to  go 
so  far  away  that  even  the  name  of  our  part  of  the  coun- 
try is  not  known  in  that  place.  Now  good-by,  Gnà 
Lola!  Let  us  pretend  it  has  rained  and  cleared  away, 
and  our  friendship  is  finished." 

Gnà  Lola  married  her  carter,  and  on  Sundays  she  used 
to  go  out  upon  her  balcony  with  her  hands  crossed  in 
front  of  her,  to  display  the  large  gold  rings  her  husband 
had  given  her. 

Turiddu  continued  his  old  habit  of  pacing  to  and  fro 
along  that  street,  with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth  and  hands 
in  his  pockets,  assuming  an  air  of  indifference  and  mak- 
ing eyes  at  all  the  girls.  But  he  was  deeply  irritated  at 
the  thought  that  Lola's  husbcUid  had  so  much  money, 
and  that  she  affected  not  even  to  see  him  when  he 
passed  her  house. 

"I'll  pay  her  back  for  that,  under  her  own  eyes,  the 
little  wretch!"  he  muttered. 

Opposite  Alfio's  house  lived  Massaro  Cola,  the  vine- 
dresser, who  was  very  rich.  He  had  a  daughter  who 
lived  at  home  with  him.     Turiddu  said  and  did  every- 


312  GIOVANNI  VERGA 

thing  he  could  think  of  in  order  to  enter  the  service  of 
Massaro  Cola,  and  finally  he  began  to  haunt  the  house, 
and  to  say  gallant  things  to  the  daughter. 

"Why  don't  you  go  and  make  all  those  fine  speeches 
to  Gnà  Lola?"  Santa  inquired  one  day. 

"Oh,  Gnà  Lola  is  now  a  grand  lady.  Gnà  Lola  is  the 
wife  of  a  crowned  king!"  he  answered. 

"I  don't  deserve  to  have  a  crowned  king,  of  course!" 

"You  are  wbrth  a  hun^dred  like  Lola,  and  I  know  one 
man  who  wouldn't  even  look  at  Lola^  nor  at  her  saint, 
if  he  could  look  at  you  instead,  for  Gnà  Lola  isn't 
worthy  to  wear  your  shoes,  I  can  tell  you  that." 

"Aha!  when  the  fox  couldn't  reach  «the  grapes,  he 
said"— 

"He  said  :  'How  beautiful  you  are,  my  little  grape  !'  " 

"Get  away  with  you,  Turiddu!" 

"Are  you  afraid  I  shall  eat  you?" 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  you,  nor  of  your  God." 

"Ah,  your  mother  was  from  Licodia — we  know  that 
very  well.  You  have  a  quick  temper.  Ah,  I  could 
fairly  devour  you  with  my  eyes  !" 

"Very  well;  devour  me  with  your  eyes,  then,  but 
meantime  help  me  to  lift  this  bundle." 

"I  would  lift  the  house  for  you — I  would  indeed!" 

Santa,  to  hide  her  blushes,  threw  at  him  a  stick  of 
wood  that  she  held  in  her  hand,  and  it  just  missed  him 
by  a  miracle. 

"Now,  stop  your  nonsense;  gabbling  never  gathered 
grapes." 

"Ah,  if  I  were  rich,  I  should  seek  for  a  wife  like  you, 
Gnà  Santa." 


RUSTIC  CHIVALRY  3^3 

"Well,  I  never  shall  marry  a  crowned  king,  like  Gnà 
Lola,  but  I  too  shall  have  a  respectable  dowry,  when 
it  pleases  the  Lord  to  send  me  a  husband." 

"Oh,  we  all  know  you  are  rich — we  know  it  very  well." 

"Even  if  you  do  know  it,  say  nothing  about  it  now; 
for  I  hear  my  father  coming,  and  I  don't  wish  to  have 
him  find  me  in  the  courtyard." 

The  old  father  indeed  began  to  show  some  objection 
to  Turiddu's  presence  about  the  place,  but  the  girl  pre- 
tended not  to  notice  it,  for  the  reason  that  the  gay 
tassel  on  the  soldier's  cap  had  set  her  little  heart  to 
throbbing  faster,  and  it  seemed  to  be  continually  danc- 
ing before  her  eyes.  Finally  her  father  forbade  Turiddu 
the  house;  but  the  daughter  opened  her  window  every 
evening  for  him,  and  stood  there  laughing,  chatting  and 
whispering  for  hours,  so  that  it  was  the  talk  of  the 
whole  neighborhood. 

"Truly,  I  am  going  mad  for  love  of  you,"  Turiddu 
would  say  to  her.  "I  have  lost  my  appetite,  and  cannot 
sleep." 

"What  nonsense!" 

"I  wish  I  were  the  son  of  Victor  Emmanuel,  so  that 
I  could  marry  you." 

"Nonsense,  I  say!" 

"By  the  Madonna,  I  could  eat  you  as  if  you  were  new 
bread." 

"What  folly!" 

"Ah,  yes,  on  my  honor!" 

"Ha!  ha!    Mamma  mìa!" 

Lola  listened  every  evening  to  all  that  went  on,  hid- 
den behind  a  tall  jar  of  basil,  and  at  last  one  day,  turn- 


314  GIOVANNI  VERGA 

ing  first  red  and  then  pale,  she  called  out  to  Turiddu: 

"So  it  seems,  Turiddu,  that  old  friends  are  never  to 
speak  to  each  other  any  more  !" 

"Ah!"  sighed  the  youth,  "happy  is  the  man  that  is 
allowed  to  speak  to  you!" 

"If  you  wish  to  speak  to  me,  you  know  where  I  live." 

After  that  Turiddu  went  to  her  house  so  often  that 
Santa  became  aware  of  it,  and  slammed  her  window 
down  in  his  face.  The  neighbors  pointed  him  out  to 
one  another  with  a  smile  or  a  shake  of  the  head  when 
he  passed  along  the  street.  Lola's  husband  was  going 
about  to  all  the  fairs  with  his  mules. 

"I  shall  go  to  confession  next  Sunday,"  said  Lola  to 
Turiddu;  "for  last  night  I  dreamed  of  black  grapes." 

"No,  don't  go!     Stay  at  home!"  entreated  Turiddu. 

"No;  now  that  Easter  is  so  near,  my  husband  will 
wish  to  know  why  I  have  not  gone  to  confession." 

"Ah!"  murmured  Santa,  the  daughter  of  Massaro 
Cola,  as  she  was  awaiting  her  turn  on  her  knees  before 
the  confessional  where  Lola  was  unburdening  her  con- 
science of  her  sins.  "Ah,  I  will  not  send  you  to  Rome 
to  do  penance  !" 

Alfio  the  carter  returned  with  his  mules,  his  pockets 
full  of  money,  and  bringing  his  wife  a  present  of  a  beau- 
tiful new  gown  for  the  Easter  holidays. 

"You  do  well  to  bring  presents  to  your  wife,"  sneered 
his  neighbor  Santa,  "for  while  you  are  away  she  deco- 
rates your  house  for  you." 

Alfio  was  the  kind  of  man  that  cocks  his  cap  over  one 
ear,  and  when  he  heard  his  wife  spoken  of  in  that  man- 


RUSTIC  CHIVALRY  315 

ner  he  changed  color  as  suddenly  as  if  he  had  been 
stabbed. 

"Thousand  devils!"  he  exclaimed;  "if  your  eyes 
haven't  seen  straight,  I  won't  leave  them  to  you  to  weep 
with — to  you  or  to  any  of  your  family!" 

"I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  weeping,"  Santa  retorted. 
"I  did  not  weep  even  when  I  saw  with  these  eyes  of 
mine  Gnà  Nimzia's  Turiddu  going  at  night  into  your 
wife's  house." 

"Very  well,  very  well  !"  Alfio  replied.  "Many  thanks  !" 

Now  that  the  cat  had  returned,  Turiddu  no  longer 
paraded  up  and  down  that  street  every  day,  but  wiled 
away  the  time  at  the  inn  with  his  friends. 

On  Easter  Eve  they  were  sitting  at  table,  on  which 
was  a  platter  full  of  sausages.  When  Alfio  entered, 
Turiddu  understood  instantly,  from  the  expression  in 
the  carter's  eyes,  that  he  had  come  to  quarrel  about  the 
affair  of  his  wife.      He  laid  his  fork  on  his  plate. 

"Have  you  any  orders  for  me,  Alfio?"  he  inquired. 

"I  have  no  favors  to  ask  of  you,  Turiddu,"  said  Alfio; 
"I  have  not  seen  you  for  some  time,  and  I  wish  to  speak 
to  you  about  a  matter  that  you  understand." 

Turiddu  had  offered  Alfio  a  glass  as  soon  as  he  came 
in,  but  the  carter  declined  it  with  a  gesture  of  his  hand. 
Then  Turiddu  rose,  and  said: 

"I  am  at  your  service,  Alfio." 

The  carter  threw  an  arm  across  Turiddu's  shoulders. 

"If  you  will  come  to-morrow  morning  to  the  prickly- 
pear  trees  of  La  Canziria,  we  can  discuss  that  matter." 

"Wait  for  me  in  the  street  at  sunrise,  and  we  will  go 
there  together." 


316  GIOVANNI  VERGA 

Vv^ith  these  words  they  exchanged  the  kiss  of  chal- 
lenge. Turiddu  caught  the  carter's  ear  between  his 
teeth,  which  signified  a  solemn  promise  not  to  fail  him. 

Turiddu's  friends  left  the  sausages  on  their  plates,  and 
silently  accompanied  Turiddu  to  his  home.  Poor  Gnà 
Nunzia  waited  until  late  for  him  every  evening. 

"Mamma,"  said  Turiddu  to  her,  "do  you  remember, 
when  I  went  away  to  be  a  soldier,  that  you  thought  I 
never  should  come  back  again?  Well,  now,  give  me  a 
sweet  kiss,  just  as  you  did  then,  for  to-morrow  morning 
I  am  going  far  away  once  more." 

Before  dawn  he  took  his  spring-knife,  which  he  had 
concealed  under  the  hay  when  he  had  been  conscripted, 
and  set  out  on  the  road  toward  the  prickly-pear  trees^ 
of  La  Canziria. 

"Oh,  Gesù  Maria!  where  are  you  going  in  such  a 
hurry?"  cried  Lola,  alarmed,  at  seeing  her  husband  pre- 
paring tO'  go  out. 

"Only  a  short  distance,"  Alfio  replied;  "but  it  would 
be  better  for  you  if  I  should  never  return!" 

Lola  knelt  at  the  foot  of  her  bed  in  her  nightgown, 
pressing  to  her  lips  the  rosary  that  Fra  Bernardino  had 
brought  to  her  from  the  Holy  Land,  and  reciting  all 
the  Ave  Marias  that  she  could. 

"Alfio,"  Turiddu  began,  after  he  had  walked  a  short 
distance  beside  his  companion,  who  strode  along  in 
silence  with  his  cap  pulled  over  his  eyes,  "as  true  as 
there  is  a  God,  I  know  that  I  have  done  wrong  and  that 
I  ought  to  let  myself  be  killed.  But  before  I  left  the 
house  I  saw  my  old  mother,  who'  got  up  early  to  see  me 
off,  pretending  to  look  after  the  hens.   Her  heart  warned 


RUSTIC  CHIVALRY  317 

her,  and,  as  true  as  there  is  a  God,  I  mean  to  kill  you 
like  a  dog,  so  that  my  poor  old  mother  shall  not  be  made 
to  weep." 

"Very  well,"  Alfio  replied,  taking  off  his  waistcoat. 
"Then  each  of  us  will  do  his  best." 

Both  were  expert  fencers;  Turiddu  received  the  first 
blow,  and  had  time  to  catch  it  in  the  arm.  As  he  re- 
ceived it,  he  paid  it  back  in  kind,  and  wounded  Alfio 
in  the  groin. 

"Ah,  Turiddu!  so  you  are  indeed  determined  to  kill 
me,  are  you?" 

"Yes,  I  told  you  so  ;  since  I  saw  my  old  mother  among 
the  hens,  it  seems  to  me  that  she  is  always  before  my 
eyes." 

"Open  your  eyes  wide,  then  !"  cried  Alfio,  "for  I  mean 
to  return  you  good  measure." 

As  he  stood  on  guard,  bending  over,  in  order  to  keep 
his  hand  on  the  wound,  which  was  painful,  and  almost 
touching  the  ground  with  his  elbow,  he  snatched  up  a 
handful  of  dust  and  threw  it  into  his  adversary's  eyes. 

"Ah!"  howled  Turiddu,  blinded;  "I  am  dead!" 

And  he  tried  to  save  himself  by  taking  desperate  leaps 
backward;  but  Alfio  rushed  after  him,  planting  another 
thrust  in  the  stomach  and  a  third  in  the  throat. 

"That  makes  three!  Take  that  for  the  decorations 
that  you  have  given  to  my  house!  Now  your  mother 
will  not  get  up  so  early  to  tend  the  hens  !" 

Turiddu  staggered  a  few  steps  here  and  there  among 
the  trees,  and  then  fell  like  a  stone.  The  foaming  blood 
gurgled  in  his  throat,  and  he  could  not  even  cry  out, 
''Ah!  mamma  mia!" 


318  GIOVANNI  VERGA 

THE  WOLF 
(La  Lupa) 

HE  was  tall  and  thin,  but  she  had  a  round,  full 
bosom,  although  she  was  no  longer  young  ;  her 
face  was  dark,  yet  pale,  as  if  she  had  always 
had  malaria.  This  strange  pallor  intensified 
the  dark  brilliance  of  her  large  eyes  and  her  fresh,  crim- 
son lips,  that  seemed  ready  to  devour  one. 

They  called  her  La  Lupa  ("the  wolf")  in  the  village, 
because  nothing  ever  satisfied  her  desire  for  conquest. 
When  she  passed  by,  the  women  crossed  themselves,  to 
see  her  stealing  along,  always  alone,  and  looking  about 
her  with  the  skulking  and  suspicious  air  of  a  hungry 
wolf;  she  could  fascinate  their  sons  and  their  husbands 
in  a  twinkling,  if  she  chose,  with  her  rosy  lips,  and  one 
glance  from  her  great  Satanic  eyes  would  bewitch  them, 
even  if  they  were  kneeling  before  the  altar  of  St.  Agrip- 
pina. Fortunately,  La  Lupa  never  went  to  church,  eith- 
er at  Easter  or  at  Christmas  ;  she  never  went  to  mass  nor 
to  confession.  Father  Angiolino  of  Santa  Maria  di 
Gesù,  once  a  true  servant  of  God,  had  lost  his  soul  for 
her  sake. 

Maricchia — poor  little  girl,  good  and  sweet — wept  in 
secret  because  she  was  La  Ltipa's  daughter,  and  no  one 
had  asked  her  to  marry,  although  she  had  fine  things  in 
her  chest  of  drawers,  and  her  own  patch  of  sunny  mea- 
dow, like  every  other  girl  of  the  village. 

One  day  La  Lupa  became  enamored  of  a  handsome 
young  fellow  who  had  just  returned  from  his  service  in 


THE  WOLF  319 

the  army.  He  and  she  were  working  together  getting 
in  the  notary's  harvest.  She  thought  she  surely  must 
be  in  love  with  him,  when  her  heart  glowed  under  her 
fustian  bodice,  and  when,  merely  in  looking  at  him,  she 
felt  as  thirsty  as  if  it  were  a  June  noontide  in  the  val- 
ley. But  the  youth  only  worked  steadily  on,  with  the 
utmost  tranquillity,  almost  with  his  nose  on  his  sheaf, 
only  saying  to  her  carelessly:  "Oh,  what  ails  you,  Gnà 
Pina?" 

In  the  immense  fields,  where  the  whirring  flight  of  the 
grasshoppers  was  the  only  sound,  while  the  sun's  rays 
fell  straight  down  in  a  blinding  glare.  La  Lupa  piled  up 
sheaf  on  sheaf,  without  ever  appearing  tired,  w^ithout 
once  rising  from  her  task,  or  even  touching  her  lips  to 
the  flask  of  water,  in  order  that  she  might  follow  close 
on  the  heels  of  Nanni,  who  reaped  and  reaped,  asking 
her  from  time  to  time: 

"What  do  you  want,  Gnà  Pina?" 

One  evening  she  told  him,  while  the  men  were  asleep 
on  the  threshing-floor,  tired  out  with  the  long  day;  the 
dogs  could  be  heard  howling  over  the  vast,  dark  cam- 
pagna. "I  want  you,  Nanni!  You  are  as  beautiful  as 
the  sun,  and  sweet  as  honey!     I  want  you!" 

"And  I,  on  the  contrary,  want  your  daughter.  I 
would  rather  have  the  calf,  you  see!"  Nanni  answered, 
laughing. 

La  Lupa  plunged  her  hands  deep  into  the  dark  masses 
of  her  hair,  scratched  her  temples  without  saying  a  word, 
and  then  departed,  nor  did  she  appear  again  in  the  fields. 
But  in  October  she  saw  Nanni  once  more,  at  the  time 
when  the  men  were  pressing  the  oil,  because  he  worked 


320  GIOVANNI  VERGA 

near  her  house,  and  the  noise  of  the  press  prevented  her 
from  sleeping. 

"Take  a  sack  full  of  olives,  and  come  with  me,"  she 
said  to  her  daughter  in  the  morning. 

Nanni  was  shoveling  olives  in  the  press,  and  crying 
"Ohi!"  to  the  mule,  to  keep  it  from  stopping. 

"Do  you  want  my  daughter  Maricchia?"  Gnà  Pina 
asked  him. 

"What  will  you  give  along  with  your  daughter  Ma- 
ricchia?" Nanni  responded. 

"She  has  all  her  father's  possessions,  and  I  will  give 
her  my  house  as  well;  if  you  will  only  let  me  have  a 
comer  in  the  kitchen  large  enough  to  sleep  in  on  my  lit- 
tle mattress,  it  will  be  enough  for  me." 

"If  that  is  the  case,"  said  Nanni,  "we  can  talk  about  it 
at  Christmas,  eh?" 

He  was  oily  and  dirty  from  the  fermenting  olive  oil, 
and  Maricchia  did  not  wish  to  have  anything  to  say  to 
him  ;  but  her  mother  seized  her  by  the  hair  as  they  stood 
near  the  fireplace,  and  muttered  through  clenched  teeth: 

"If  you  don't  take  him,  I'll  kill  you!" 

La  Lupa  was  looking  quite  ill  the  next  year,  and  the 
townsfolk  said  of  her:  "When  the  devil  was  old  the 
devil  a  monk  would  be  !"  She  wandered  about  the  coun- 
try no  more,  nor  did  she  now  stand  at  her  threshold,  as 
she  used  to  stand,  gazing  out  with  those  haunting 
eyes.  When  she  fixed  those  dark  eyes  on  the  face 
of  her  son-in-law  he  would  laugh,  and  then  pull 
an  image  of  the  Madonna  out  of  the  pocket  of  his  short 
jacket,  and  cross  himself.  Maricchia  stayed  in  the  house 
to  take  care  of  her  baby,  and  her  mother  went  out  in  the 


THE  WOLF  321 

fields  to  work  with  the  men,  and  behaved  like  one  of 
them — she  pulled  weeds,  dug  in  the  fields,  looked  after 
animals,  and  pruned  the  vines,  whether  it  were  in  the 
windy  month  of  January  or  in  the  sirocco  of  August, 
when  the  mules  droop  their  heads  languidly,  and  the 
men  sleep  fiat  on  their  stomachs  in  the  shade  of  the 
north  wall. 

In  that  hour  between  vespers  and  nones,  or  nine 
o'clock,  when  no  good  woman  flaunts  herself  abroad, 
Gnà  Pina  was  the  only  living  being  to  be  seen  straying 
over  the  campagna,  over  the  burning  stones  of  the  little 
streets,  or  among  the  dry  stubble  of  the  immense  fields, 
the  horizon  of  which  was  lost  afar  off  in  the  burning 
haze  of  cloudy  ^tna,  where  the  sky  appears  to  hang 
heavy  over  the  landscape. 

"Awake  !"  exclaimed  La  Lupa  to  Nanni,  who  was  sleep- 
ing in  a  furrow  next  to  the  dusty  field,  with  his  head 
between  his  arms.  "Open  your  eyes,  for  I  have  brought 
you  some  wine  to  refresh  your  dry  throat." 

Nanni  opened  his  eyes  dreamily,  still  half  asleep,  and 
saw  her  standing  before  him,  pale,  with  heaving  bosom 
and  her  eyes  as  black  as  coals.  He  waved  her  away 
with  his  hand. 

"No!  a  good  woman  does  not  wander  abroad  in  the 
hour  between  vespers  and  nones!"  Nanni  whispered 
hoarsely,  hiding  his  face  deep  in  the  dry  weeds  border- 
ing the  furrow,  his  hands  clutching  his  hair.  "Go 
away!  Go  away,  I  tell  you,  and  don't  come  to  the 
threshing-house  again  !" 

And  La  Lupa  went  away,  fastening  up  her  superb 
hair,  and  hastening  along,  through  the  burned  grass  and 


322  GIOVANNI  VERGA 

stubble,  with  a  downward  glance  of  those  eyes  as  black 
as  coals. 

But  she  went  again  to  the  threshing-house,  and  Nan- 
ni did  not  reproach  her  again;  and  when  she  was  late  in 
coming,  in  the  hour  between  vespers  and  nones,  he  went 
to  wait  for  her  at  the  top  of  the  white  and  lonely  little 
path;  his  brow  was  bathed  with  perspiration  then,  but 
later  he  would  thrust  his  hands  into  his  thick  hair,  and 
say:  "Ah,  go,  go!  Come  no  more  to  the  threshing- 
house  !" 

Maricchia  wept  night  and  day,  and  she  looked  fiercely 
at  her  mother,  her  eyes  glittering  with  burning  tears  and 
jealousy,  herself  like  a  wolf's  cub,  whenever  she  saw  her 
returning  from  the  fields,  always  pale  and  silent. 

"Wicked,  wicked  mother!"  she  cried  at  last. 

"Be  silent!" 

"Thief— you  are  a  thief  !" 

"Be  silent,  I  say!" 

"I  shall  go  to  the  brigadiere!" 

"Go,  then!" 

And  the  daughter  really  went  to  the  authorities,  car- 
rying her  children,  fearing  nothing,  and  without  shed- 
ding a  tear.  She  was  like  one  insane,  because  by  this 
time  she  herself  loved  the  husband  she  had  been  com- 
pelled to  marry,  oily  and  dirty  as  he  was  from  his  work 
among  the  fermenting  olives. 

The  officials  summoned  Nanni  to  appear  before  them, 
and  threatened  him  with  the  galleys,  and  even  with  the 
gallows.  Nanni  only  wept  and  tore  his  hair  ;  he  did  not 
deny  anything,  nor  attempt  to  excuse  himself. 

"I  was  tempted,"  was  all  he  said^'  "and  it  was  the 


THE  WOLF  323 

temptation  of  hell!"  He  threw  himself  at  the  officer's 
feet,  and  implored  him  to  send  him  to  the  galleys. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  Signor  Brigadiere,  take  me  away 
from  this  hell  I  live  in  !  Let  them  shoot  me  or  send  me 
to  prison  !  Don't  let  me  see  her  any  more — never,  never 
let  me  see  her  again!" 

"No,"  La  Lupa  answered,  when  questioned  by  the 
brigadiere.  "I  reserved  a  comer  of  my  kitchen  to  sleep 
in,  when  I  gave  my  house»  tO'  him  as  my  daughter's 
dowry.     The  house  is  mine.     I  will  not  leave  it  !" 

A  little  later  Nanni  was  kicked  in  the  chest  by  his 
mule,  and  was  very  near  to  death,  but  the  priest  refused 
to  administer  extreme  imction  so  long  as  La  Lupa  re- 
mained in  the  house.  So  she  went  away,  and  her  son- 
in-law  was  made  ready  to  die  like  a  good  Christian;  he 
confessed  and  took  the  sacrament  with  such  signs  of 
penitence  and  contrition  that  all  the  curious  neighbors 
wept  at  the  bedside  of  the  dying  man. 

Better  would  it  have  been  for  Nanni  had  he  died  then, 
before  the  devil  returned  to  tempt  him  anew,  and  to  take 
possession  of  him,  body  and  soul,  after  he  had  recov- 
ered. 

"Let  me  alone!"  he  said  to  La  Lupa;  "for  God's  sake, 
leave  me  in  peace  !  I  have  been  face  to  face  with  death. 
My  poor  Maricchia  is  in  despair.  The  whole  town 
knows  all  about  it.  If  I  do  not  see  you,  it  is  all  the 
better  for  both  of  us." 

And  in  fact  he  would  rather  have  torn  out  his  own 
eyes  than  to  look  into  the  eyes  of  La  Lupa,  for  when 
she  fixed  them  upon  him  they  made  him  forget  and  lose 
soul  and  body.     He  did  not  know  how  to  overcome  the 


324  GIOVANNI  VERGA 

spell  she  cast  upon  him.  He  paid  for  masses  to  be  said 
for  souls  in  purgatory,  and  invoked  the  help  of  the  priest 
and  the  brigadiere.  At  Easter  he  went  to  confession, 
and  as  a  penance  stood  publicly  in  the  sacred  enclosure 
in  front  of  the  church  with  his  tongue  protruding  from 
his  mouth.  When  La  Lupa  approached  him  to  try  her 
temptations  once  more,  he  said: 

"Listen  to  me!  Never  come  to  the  threshing-house 
again,  for  if  you  do  come  there  in  search  of  me,  I  will 
kill  you  as  sure  as  there  is  a  God!'* 

"Very  well,  kill  me,  then,"  La  Lupa  answered.  "That 
makes  no  difference  to  me,  but  I  cannot  live  without 
you." 

When  Nanni  saw  her  from  a  distance  gliding  through 
the  green  cornfield,  he  left  oflf  dressing  the  vines,  and 
went  to  the  foot  of  an  elm-tree  to  get  his  ax.  La  Lupa 
saw  him  coming  toward  her,  with  pale  face  and  wild 
eyes.  The  ax  glittered  in  the  sunlight,  but  she  did  not 
stop  nor  turn  away  her  eyes.  She  came  straight  on, 
her  hands  full  of  clusters  of  scarlet  poppies,  and  seem- 
ing to  wish  to  devour  him  with  those  great  black  eyes. 

"Ah,  curses  on  your  soul!"  stammered  Nanni. 


WHEN  WE  WERE  YOUNG 

BY 
VITTORIO  BETTELONI 
TRANSLATED  BY  G.  A.  GREENE 


325 


INTRODUCTION 

AT  the  time  when  Vittorio  Betteloni  began  to 
write  (in  1866),  a  movement  had  been  for 
some  time  in  progress  among  the  younger 
Italian  writers  against  the  so-called  Romantic 
School  of  poets,  with  its  cold  formulas,  polished  style, 
and  lack  of  human  emotion,  and  a  return  to  the  manner 
of  the  classics  had  begun,  in  which  the  younger  genera- 
tion strove  to  prove  that  the  conventions  of  "romanti- 
cism" could  be  thrown  aside  and  true  poetry  written 
without  them.  Among  the  more  notable  of  these  ven- 
turesome spirits  was  the  subject  of  this  sketch,  who 
was  bom  in  Verona  in  1840,  the  son  of  the  poet  Cesare 
Betteloni,  and  was  educated  at  the  University  of  Pisa. 
In  the  early  'eighties  he  became  Professor  of  Italian 
Literature  and  History  in  the  College  of  Oneglia.  His 
first  literary  effort  was  a  novel  in  verse  (ottava  rima), 
entitled  U Ombra  dello  Sposo  (1866),  followed  by  a  col- 
lection of  poems,  In  Primavera  ("In  Springtime"),  pub- 
lished in  1869.  Later  appeared  the  Nuovi  Versi  (1880), 
the  first  six  cantos  of  Byron's  Don  Juan  translated  into 
Italian  (in  ottava  rima),  and  a  translation  of  Goethe's 
Hermann  nnd  Dorothea.  His  muse  sings  in  a  free  and 
natural  manner  of  the  simplest,  tenderest  emotions,  the 
beauties  of  nature,  and  the  sweetness  and  glory  of 
"youth,  the  dream." 


327 


WHEN  WE  WERE  YOUNG 

Then  slowly  was  I  wont  to  follow  you 
As  a  young  lover  will,  content  to  spy 

The  form  beloved,  far  off,  and  so  to  do 
As  to  deceive  the  casual  passers-by. 

And  you,  with  cautious  and  suspectful  mien, 
As  if  no'  thought  of  me  had  crossed  your  mind. 

Now  and  again,  hoping  yourself  unseen, 

Would  turn  your  face^ — not  oft — and  glance  behind; 

And  yet  not  very  seldom,  truth  to  say. 

Because  you  feared  lest  I  should  be  too  slow. 

Or  lest  perchance  I  should  mistake  the  way. 
Or  meet  some  friend  who  would  not  let  me  go. 

Then,  when  you  reached  the  threshold  of  your  home, 
For  one  short  moment  you  would  pause,  and  stay; 

Quickly  around  your  loving  glance  would  roam. 
To  see  if  I  were  near  or  far  away. 

Then  swiftly  up  the  stair  your  feet  would  fly. 
And  on  the  terrace  you  would  pause  awhile; 

Slow,  very  slowly  would  I  saunter  by; 

And  then,  you  made  me  happy  with  a  smile! 


3S9 


EVENING:   THE   BELLS 

BY 
ANTONIO  FOGAZZARO 

TRANSLATED  BY  G.  A.  GREENE 


331 


INTRODUCTION 

^i^H^HIS  popular  writer  of  the  present  generation  is 
/  J  both  novelist  and  poet.      He  was  bom  at  Vi- 

^^^  cenza,  in  1842,  and  received  most  of  his  early 
education  under  the  tuition  of  the  Abbé  Zan- 
ella, himself  a  favorite  Italian  poet.  He  was  graduated 
at  the  University  of  Turin  in  1861,  and  soon  entered 
the  field  of  literature  as  a  poet,  charming  his  fellow 
countrymen  with  his  power  to  express  the  beauties  of 
nature  and  the  finer  impulses  of  man.  His  first  work, 
a  romance  in  verse  entitled  Miranda,  was  published  in 
1874,  and  in  1876  a  much  more  notable  volume  appeared 
under  the  name  of  Volsolda,  which  was  republished,  in 
amplified  form,  in  1886.  Another  collection  of  poems 
entitled  Profumo  poesie  appeared  in  1881.  After  this 
his  popularity  was  increased  by  the  high  quality  of  his 
prose  work,  as  shown  in  his  novel  called  Piccolo  Mondo 
Antico,  known  in  its  English  form  as  The  Patriot,  and 
followed  by  two  other  novels  of  political,  social,  and 
religious  interest — The  Sinner,  and  The  Saint.  The 
haunting  melody  of  the  Angelus,  and  the  purple  twi- 
lights of  Italy,  return  to  the  imagination  through  the 
fascination  of  his  verse. 


EVENING:  THE  BELLS 

The  Bells  of  Oria 

Westward  the  sky  o'er  gloometh, 
The  hour  of  darkness  cometh. 
From  spirits  of  evil, 
From  Death  and  the  Devil, 
Keep  us,  O  Lord,  night  and  day! 
Come,  let  us  pray. 

The  Bells  of  Osteno 

O'er  waters  waste  we  too  must  sound, 
From  lonely  shores  where  echoes  bound, 
Our  voice  profound. 
From  spirits  of  evil. 
From  Death  and  the  Devil, 
Keep  us,  O  Lord,  night  and  day! 
Come,  let  us  pray. 

The  Bells  of  Furia 

We  too,  remote  and  high. 
From  the  dark  mountains  cry: 
Hear  us,  O  Lord! 
From  spirits  of  evil, 
From  Death  and  the  Devil, 
Keep  us,  O  Lord,  night  and  day! 
Come,  let  us  pray. 

335 


336  ANTONIO  FOGAZZARO 

Echoes  from  the  Valleys 

Let  us  pray! 

All  the  Bells 

The  light  is  bom  and  dies, 

Enduring  never: 

Sunset  follows  sunrise 

Forever  ; 

All  things,  O  Lord  All-wise! 

Save  Thine  eternity, 

Are  vanity. 

Echoes  -from  the   Vallevs 

Vanity  ! 

All  the  Bells 

Come,  let  us  pray  and  weep. 

From  the  heights  and  from  the  deep. 

For  the  living,  for  them  that  sleep, 

For  so  much  sin  unknown,  and  so  much  pain. 

Have  mercy.  Lord! 

All  suffering  and  pain. 

That  does  not  pray  to  Thee; 

All  error  that  in  vain 

Does  not  give  way  to  Thee; 

All  love  that  must  complain, 

Yet  yields  no  sway  to  Thee, 

Pardon,  O  Holy  One! 

Echoes  from  the  Valleys 

O  Holy  One! 

All  the  Bells 

Pray  we,  and  toll  the  bell 

For  the  dead  beneath  the  loam. 

Whom  Earth  hath  gathered  home 


EVENING:  THE  BELLS  337 

Guilty  or  guiltless,  as  vain  men  opine. 
Thou,   Mystery  Divine! 
Alone  canst  tell. 


Echoes  from  tlic  Valleys 
Alone  canst  tell! 

All  the  Bells 

Let  us  pray  £or  the  immense 

Pain  of  the  universe, 

That  lives  its  life  intense. 

Loves,  suffers  Thine  adverse 

Inscrutable  decrees. 

Peace  to  the  wave,  to  the  hill 

These  voices,  too,  be  still; 

O  beat  o'  the  bronze,  be  still! 

Peace  ! 

Echoes  from  the  Valleys 
Peace  ! 

The  Wave 

Dost  thou  sleep,  fair  shore 
That  the  v^raters  adore? 
With  quivering  breath 
My  pain  lingereth 
As  I  sing,  as  I  weep; 
And  my  love  is  asleep! 
One  accent  alone. 
One  murmur,  one  moan, 
One  sigh — only  this — 
As  thy  pebbles  I  kiss. 
Be  silent,  O  deep! 


338  ANTONIO  FOGAZZARO 

The  stars  as  they  smile 

Fall  in  love  for  awhile 

With  my  mirror  serene; 

In  my  bosom  bright  Vesper  reflected  is  seen. 

Silence  and  sleep! 

One  accent  alone, 

One  murmur,  one  moan, 

One  sigh — only  this 

One  kiss. 

The  Waterfall  of  Rescia 

My  waves  have  no  peace; 
My  waves  do  not  cease — 
They  murmur  and  roar 
Through  silences  lonely 
On  a  desolate  shore. 
The  silent  waves  hear; 
The  dark  mountains  hear; 
They  list,  and  hear  only 
My  murmurs  austere. 


TURKISH  WOMEN 

BY 
EDMONDO   DE  AMICIS 

TRANSLATED  BY  CAROLINE  TILTON 


339 


A   BEAUTY   OF  THE  HAREM 
From  a  Painting  by  N.  Sichel 


INTRODUCTION 

0^^f  HIS  favorite  writer,  whose  works  have  been  trans- 
/  I  lated  into  many  languages,  was  born  in  Oneg- 

^^^  lia,  in  1846.  His  parents  wished  him  to  enter 
military  life,  and  he  was  educated  with  that 
end  in  view.  When  the  war  of  1866  broke  out  in  Italy, 
he  was  a  sub-lieutenant,  and  took  part  in  the  battle  of 
Custozza.  In  1867  he  went  to  Florence,  and  became  the 
editor  of  the  Italia  Militare,  a  journal  of  military  life  and 
doings,  in  which  his  Bozzetti  della  Vita  ìnilitare  ("Sketches 
of  Military  Life")  first  appeared;  these  sketches  were 
greatly  admired  and  had  an-  enormous  sale,  and  marked 
the  beginning  of  his  highly  successful  literary  career. 
After  the  capture-  of  Rome,  in  1870,  by  the  troops  of 
Victor  Emmanuel,  De  Amicis  left  the  army  and  thence- 
forth devoted  himself  to  literature,  in  which  he  gained 
his  greatest  success  as  a  writer  of  books  of  travel. 
These  delightful  works  comprise  Spain,  Morocco,  Holland, 
Constantinople,  Recollections  of  London,  Recollections  of  Paris; 
he  vvnTOte  also  The  Romance  of  a  Schoohnaster,  a  novel,  and 
a  volume  of  poems,  published  in  1882.  The  stories  of 
his  journeyings  are  remarkable  for  their  brilliant  de- 
scriptive style,  their  play  of  humor,  and  the  art  with 
which  they  give  the  intimate  personal  details  of  the  life 
of  foreign  peoples.  The  following  chapter  is  from  his 
book  on  Constantinople,  the  most  popular  of  all  his  records 
of  travel. 

341 


TURKISH  WOMEN 

/•^yT  is  a  great  surprise  for  those  arriving  for  the 
mI  first  time  at  Constantinople,  after  hearing  much 
^W^  of  the  state  of  slavery  in  which  the  women  are 
kept,  to  see  women  from  all  parts,  and  at  all 
hours  of  the  day,  going  about  as  in  any  European  city. 
It  seems  as  if  all  those  imprisoned  birds  had  been  let 
loose  on  that  particular  day,  and  that  a  new  era  of 
liberty  for  the  Mussulman  fair  sex  must  be  about  to 
begin.  The  iirst  impression  is  most  curious.  The 
stranger  wonders  whether  all  those  white-veiled  figures, 
in  bright-hued  swathings,  are  masqueraders,  or  nuns, 
or  lunatics  ;  and,  as  not  one  is  ever  seen  accompanied 
by  a  man,  they  appear  to  belong  to  no  one,  and  to  be  all 
girls  or  widows,  or  members  of  some  great  association 
of  the  "unhappily  married."  At  first  it  is  difficult  to 
persuade  oneself  that  all  those^  Turks,  male  and  female, 
that  meet  and  pass  without  taking  the  slightest  notice 
of  one  another,  can  have  associations  in  common.  One 
is  constrained  to  stop  and  meditate  upon  these  strange 
figures  and  stranger  customs..  These,  then,  you  think, 
these  are  really  those  "conquerors  of  the  heart,"  those 
"founts  of  pleasure,"  those  "little  rose-leaves,"  "early 
ripening  grapes,"  "dews  of  the  morning,"  "auroras," 
"life-givers,"  and  "full  moons,"  of  which  a  thousand 
poets  have  sung.  These  are  the  hanums  and  the  mys- 
terious odalisques  that  we  dreamed  of  when  we  were 

343 


344  EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 

twenty-one  and  read  Victor  Hugo's  ballads  in  a  shady 
garden.  These  are  the  lovely  oppressed  ones,  im- 
prisoned behind  gratings,  watched  by  eunuchs,  separa- 
ted from  the  world,  passing  on  the  earth  like  phantoms, 
with  a  cry  of  pleasure  or  a  shriek  of  pain.  Let  us  see 
what  remains  of  truth  in  all  that  poetry. 

First,  then,  the  Turkish  woman's  face  is  no  longer 
a  mystery,  and  thus  a  great  part  of  the  poetry  surround- 
ing her  has  vanished.    That  jealous  veil,  which,  according 
to  the  Koran,  was  to  be  "a  sign  of  her  virtue  and  a 
guard   against  the   world,"   is  now   only    a   semblance. 
Everyone  knows  how  the  yashmak,  or  veil,  is  fashioned. 
There  are  two  large  white  veils,  one  of  which,  bound 
tightly  round  "the  head  like  a  bandage,  covers  the  fore- 
head to  the  eyebrows,  and  is  tied  behind  at  the  nape 
of  the  neck,  falling  in  two  long  ends  as  far  as  the  girdle  ; 
the  other  veil  covers  the  lower  part  of  the  face  up  to-  the 
eyes,  and  is  knotted  in  with  the  first,  so  that  the  two 
seem  but  one.     But  these  veils,  which  should  be  of  mus- 
lin, and  drawn  in  such  a  way  as  to  leave  only  the  eyes 
exposed,  are  in  reality  of  transparent  tulle,  and  so  loose- 
ly arranged  that  not  only  the  face,  but  the  ears,  neck, 
and  hair  are  visible,   and  very  often,  too,  a  European 
hat,  trimmed  with  flowers  and  feathers,  is  worn  by  the 
more  "reformed"  ladies.     Thus  it  happens  that  just  the 
contrary  of  what  once  obtained  is  now  the  custom,  for 
the  older  women,  who  once-  were  allowed  to  uncover 
their  faces  a  little,  are  now  the  most  closely  veiled,  while 
the  handsome  women,  who  used  to  be  rigorously  hidden, 
are  now  quite  visible.      Of  course  the  many  charming 
surprises  and   fascinating  mysteries  dear  to  the  poets 


TURKISH  WOMEN  345 

and  romancists,  are  no  longer  possible,  and  among  other 
fables  is  that  which  declares  that  the  bridegroom  be- 
holds the  face  of  his  bride  for  the  first  time»  on  his  mar- 
riage night.  But  beyond  the  face  everything  else — 
shoulders,  arms  and  waist — is  scrupulously  hidden  by 
the  fcrcdjè,  a  kind  of  long  tunic,  furnished  with  a  cape 
and  long,  wide  sleeves,  a  shapeless  garment,  falling  like 
a  sack  from  shoulders  to  feet,  made  of  cloth  in  winter 
and  of  silk  in  summer,  and  of  one  usually  very  brilliant 
color.  Sometimes  it  is  bright  red,  sometimes  orange,  or 
green;  and  one  or  another  color  predominates  from  year 
to  year,  while  the  form  remains  unchanged.  But  they 
know  how  to  adjust  the  yashmak  with  so  much  art  that 
the  handsome  seem  still  handsomer,  while  the  plain  pre- 
sent an  agreeable  appearance.  It  is  impossible  to  de- 
scribe the  variety  of  things  they  do  with  those  two  veils, 
with  what  grace  they  arrange  them  in  coronets  and 
turbans,  with  what  amplitude  and  nobility  of  folds  they 
twist  them  about,  with  what  lightness  and  elegance  they 
let  them  float  and  fall,  making  them  serve  at  once  to 
display,  to  conceal,  to  promise,  to  propose  a  problem, 
or  to  betray  some  little  marvel  unexpectedly.  Some 
appear  to  be  wearing  around  their  heads  a  white,  trans- 
parent cloud  that  would  vanish  with  a  puff;  others  look 
as  if  they  were  crowned  with  lilies  and  jasmine  flowers  ; 
all  have  very  white  skins,  and  the  veil  adds  a  new  charm 
of  whiteness  and  softness  and  freshness.  It  is  a  cos- 
tume at  once  austere  and  sweet,  which  has  something 
virginal  and  holy  about  it  ;  under  which  none  but  gentle 
thoughts  and  innocent  fancies  should  have  birth. 

It  is  difficult  to  define  the    beauty    of    the    Turkish 


346  EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 

woman.  I  may  say  that  when  I  think  of  her  I  see  a 
very  fine  face,  two  black  eyes,  a  crimson  mouth,  and  an 
expression  of  sweetness.  Almost  all  of  them,  however, 
are  painted.  They  whiten  their  faces  with  almond  and 
jasmine  paste,  they  lengthen  and  darken  their  eyebrows 
with  Indian  ink,  they  tint  their  eyelids,  they  powder 
their  throats,  they  put  a  dark  circle  round  their  eyes, 
they  wear  patches  on  their  cheeks.  But  they  do  it  all 
with  taste,  not  like  the  beauties  of  Fez,  who  paint  them- 
selves with  a  whitewash-brush.  The  greater  part  of 
them  have  fine  oval  faces,  the  nose  a  little  arched,  full 
lips  and  round  chins,  with  dimples;  many  have  dimples 
also  in  their  cheeks  ;  a  beautiful  throat,  long  and  flexible  ; 
and  small  hands,  almost  always  hidden,  unfortunately, 
by  the  long  sleeves  of  their  mantles.  Nearly  all  are 
rather  fat,  and  many  are  above  the  middle  height;  it  is 
rare  to  see  a  dumpy  or  a  long,  thin  woman,  as  in  our 
country.  All  have  a  common  defect  of  walking  with  a 
stoop,  and  a  certain  waddle  like  that  of  a  big  baby  sud- 
denly grown  up;  which  comes,  it  is  said,  from  a  weak- 
ness of  limb  caused  by  abuse  of  the  bath,  and  also  some- 
what from  their  awkward,  ill-fitting  slippers.  In  fact, 
it  is  common  to  see  very  elegant  ladies,  who  must  have 
small  delicate  feet,  shod  with  men's  slippers  or  long, 
wide  boots,  wrinkled  all  over,  that  a  European  ragpicker 
would  disdain.  But  even  in  this  ugly  manner  of  walk- 
ing there  is  a  kind  of  girlish  air,  which,  when  one  is  used 
to  it,  is  not  displeasing.  Of  those  figures  like  fashion- 
plates,  so  frequent  in  European  cities,  that  walk  like 
puppets  and  look  as  if  they  were  hopping  on  the  squares 
of  a  chess-board,  none  are  to  be  seen.      They  have  not 


TURKISH  WOMEN  347 

yet  lost  the  stately,  negligent  grace  of  the  Oriental;  and 
if  they  were  to  lose  it,  they  might  be  more  dignified,  but 
certainly  would  be  less  interesting.  There  are  figures 
among  them  of  a  great  variety  of  beauty,  according  as 
there  is  a  mingling  of  Turkish,  Arabic,  Circassian,  or 
Persian  blood.  There  are  matrons  of  thirty  of  opulent 
forms  which  the  fcrcdjc  fails  to  conceal,  very  tall,  with 
great  dark  eyes,  full  lips  and  dilated  nostrils — Jiamuns 
to  strike  terror  with  a  look  into  the  souls  of  a  hundred 
slaves. 

There  are  others  small  and  plump,  who  have  every- 
thing round — face,  eyes,  nose,  and  mouth — and  an  air  of 
such  gentleness,  benevolence,  and  childishness,  an  ap- 
pearance of  such  entire  and  mild  resignation  to  their 
destiny,  and  of  being  nothing  but  toys  and  things  for 
recreation,  that  passing  near  them  one  is  tempted  to  pop 
a  sugar-plum  into  their  mouths.  And  there  are  the 
slender  forms  of  wives  of  sixteen,  ardent  and  vivacious, 
with  eyes  full  of  caprice  and  cunning,  who  inspire  in 
the  beholder  a  sentiment  of  pity  for  the  poor  effendi  that 
has  to  control  them  and  the  unfortunate  eunuch  that  is 
obliged  to  watch  them. 

The  city  makes  an  admirable  frame  for  their  beauty 
and  their  costume.  These  white-veiled,  purple-robed 
figures  should  be  seen  seated  in  a  caique  iv  the  midst 
of  the  blue  waters  of  Bosphorus;  or  reclining  on  the 
grass  under  the  green  shade  of  the  cemeteries  ;  or,  better 
still,  coming  down  a  steep  and  solitary  street  of  Stam- 
boul,  shut  in  at  the  back  by  a  great  plane  tree,  the  wind 
blowing,  and  the  veil  and  fcredjc  streaming  out,  and  dis- 
playing throat,  and  foot  and  ankle;  and  I  assure  you 


348  EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 

that  in  that  moment,  i£  the  indulgent  decree  of  Solyman 
the  Magnificent  were  still  in  vigor,  which  mulcted  in 
an  aspro  every  kiss  given  to  the  wife  or  daughter  of 
another  man,  Harpagon  himself  would  kick  avarice 
aside.  And  when  the  wind  blows  the  Mussulman  woman 
does  not  put  herself  out  to  hold  down  her  fercdjc,  be- 
cause her  modesty  does  not  extend  below  her  knee,  and 
sometimes  stops  a  good  bit  above  it. 

One  thing  that  is  astonishing  at  first  is  their  way  of 
looking  and  laughing,  which  would  excuse  the  boldest 
advance.  It  frequently  happens  that  a  European  look- 
ing fixedly  at  a  Turkish  lady,  even  one  of  high  rank, 
is  rewarded  by  a  smiling  glance,  or  an  open  laugh.  It 
is  not  rare,  either,  for  a  handsome  liannm  in  a  carriage 
to  give  a  gracious  salute  with  her  hand,  behind  the 
eunuch's  back,  tO'  a  Prankish  gentleman  who  has 
pleased  her  fancy.  Sometimes  in  a  cemetery,  or  in  a 
retired  street,  a  capricious  lady  will  gO'  so  far  as  to 
throw  a  flower  as  she  passes,  or  to  let  it  fall  with  a 
manifest  intention  that  it  shall  be  picked  up  by  the  ele- 
gant giaour  who  is  behind  her.  In  this  way  a  fatuous 
traveler  may  be  very  much  deluded;  and  there  are  in- 
deed some  simple  beings,  who,  after  passing  a  month  in 
Constantinople,  really  imagine  in  perfect  good  faith  that 
they  have  destroyed  the  peace  of  a  hundred  unfortunate 
women.  No  doubt  there  is,  in  these  acts,  an  ingenuous 
expression  of  sympathy,  but  there  is  still  more  of  a 
spirit  of  rebellion,  which  all  the  Turkish  women  have 
in  their  hearts,  born  of  the  subjection  in  which  they  are 
held,  which  they  show,  when  they  can,  in  these  foolish 
tricks,  thus  spiting  their  masters,  even  in  secret.     They 


TURKISH  WOMEN  349 

do  it  more  from  childishness  than  from  coquetry,  and 
their  coquetry  is  of  a  singular  kind,  resembling  much 
the  first  experiments  of  little  girls,  when  they  become 
aware  that  they  are  being  looked  at.  It  is  a  broad  laugh, 
or  a  look  upward,  with  mouth  open  and  an  expression  of 
astoriishm.ent,  or  a  pretending  to  have  a  pain  in  the  head 
or  the  leg,  or  a  wilful  jerking  of  the  embarrassing  folds 
of  the   fcrcdjc,  schoolgirl  tiicks  that  seem  intended  to 
excite  laughter  rather  than   to  seduce.      Never  an   af- 
fected or  artificial  attitude.      The  little   art  they  show 
is  entirely  rudimental.       One   can   see,   as   Tommasseo 
says,  that  they  have  not  many  veils  to  lift;  that  they 
are  not  accustomed  to  a  long  wooing;  and  that  when 
they  feel  an  attraction  toward  anyone,  instead  of  sigh- 
ing and  rolling  their  eyes  in   suspense,    they    will    go 
straight  to  their  point,  and  if  they  could  express  their 
sentiments,  would  say:  O  Christian,  thou  pleasest  me! 
Not  being  able  to  do  that,  they  make  it  frankly  visible, 
showing  two  rows  of  shining  pearl-like  teeth,  or  laugh- 
ing out  in  his  face.     They  are  pretty  tamed  Tartars. 

And  they  are  free;  this  is  a  truth  apparent  to  the 
stranger  almost  as  soon  as  he  arrives.  It  is  an  exag- 
geration to  say,  like  Lady  Montague,  that  they  are  more 
free  than  Europeans  ;  but  whoever  has  been  at  Constan- 
tinople can  not  but  laugh  when  he  hears  them  spoken 
of  as  "slaves."  Ladies,  when  they  wish  to  go  out,  order 
the  eunuchs  to  prepare  the  carriage,  ask  no  one's  per- 
mission, and  come  back  when  they  please,  provided  it 
is  before  nightfall.  Formerly,  they  could  not  go  with- 
out being  accompanied  by  a  eunuch  or  by  a  female 
slave,  or  friend,  and  the  boldest  were  at  least  obliged 


350  EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 

to  take  one  of  their  children  with  them,  who  served  as 
a  sign  of  respectability.  If  any  woman  appeared  alone 
in  a  retired  street  or  square,  some  city  guard  or  rigor- 
ous old  Turk  was  sure  to  accost  her  and  demand: 
"Whither  goest  thou?  Whence  comest  thou?  And  why 
art  thou  alone?  Is  this  the  way  thou  respectest  thy 
effendi?  Return  at  once  to  thy  abode  !"  But  now  they 
go  out  alone  by  hundreds,  and  are  seen  at  all  hours  in 
the  Mussulman  suburbs,  and  in  the  Frank  quarters. 
They  go  to  pay  visits  to  their  friends,  they  pass  half 
the  day  in  the  bath-houses,  they  go  about  in  boats — on 
Thursdays  to  the  Sweet  Waters  of  Europe,  on  Sundays 
to  those  of  Asia,  on  Tuesdays  to  the  cemetery  of  Scu- 
tari, on  other  days  to  the  islands,  to  Terapia,  to  Bu- 
jukdéré,  to  Kalender,  to  lunch  with  their  slave  women, 
in  companies  of  eight  or  ten.  They  go  to  pray  at  the 
tombs  of  the  Sultans,  to  see  the  dervishes  at  their  con- 
vents, to  visit  the  public  exhibitions  of  nuptial  trous- 
seaux, and  there  is  not  the  sign  of  a  man  accompanying 
or  following  them,  nor  would  any  presume  to  accost 
them,  even  when  they  are  quite  alone. 

To  see  a  Turk  in  the  streets  of  Constantinople — not 
with  a  lady  on  his  arm  or  at  his  side — stopping  but  for 
one  instant  to  speak  with  a  "veiled  woman,"  even  if 
they  bore  husband  and  wife  written  on  their  foreheads, 
would  appear  to  all  the  strangest  of  strange  things, 
or  rather  an  unheard-of  piece  of  impudence,  such  as  it 
would  be  in  our  streets  were  a  man  and  woman  to  make 
love  to  each  other  in  public.  In  this  way,  the  Turkish 
women  are  really  more  free  than  their  European  sisters, 
and  their  delight  in  their  liberty  is  indescribable,  and  the 


TURKISH  WOMEN  351 

wild  excitement  with  which  they  rush  into  noise, 
crowds,  light,  open  air — they  who  in  their  own  homes 
never  see  but  one  man,  and  live  behind  grated  windows 
and  in  cloistered  gardens.  They  go  about  the  city  with 
the  joy  of  liberated  prisoners.  It  is  amusing  to  watch 
one  of  them  from  a  distance,  and,  following  her  foot- 
steps afar  off,  observe  how  she  prolongs  and  spreads 
out  the  pleasure  of  vagabondizing.  She  enters  a  mosque 
near  by,  to  murmur  a  prayer,  and  lingers  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  under  the  portico,  chattering  with  a  friend; 
then  tO'  the  bazaar  to  look  in  at  a  dozen  shops  and  turn 
two  or  three  upside  down  in  search  of  some  trifle;  then 
she  takes  the  tramway,  gets  out  at  the  fish-market, 
crosses  the  bridge,  stops  to  contemplate  all  the  braids  and 
wigs  in  the  hair-dresser's  window  in  the  streets  of 
Pera,  enters  a  cemetery  and  eats  a  sweetmeat,  sitting  on 
a  tomb,  returns  to  the  city,  goes  down  to  the  Golden 
Horn,  turning  a  hundred  comers,  and  glancing  at  every- 
thing out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye — shop  windows,  prints, 
placards,  advertisements,  people  passing,  carriages,  signs, 
theater  doors  ;  buys  a  bunch  of  flowers,  drinks  a  lemon- 
ade, gives  alms  to  a  poor  man,  crosses  the  Golden  Horn 
in  a  caique,  and  walks  about  Stamboul;  there  she  takes 
the  tramway  again,  and,  arriving  at  her  own  door,  is 
capable  of  turning  back,  to  make  the  tour  of  a  group 
of  small  houses;  exactly  as  children  coming  out  for  the 
first  time  alone,  seek  to  make  the  most  of  their  liberty, 
and  see  a  little  of  everything.  Any  poor  corpulent 
effendi  who  should  try  to  follow  his  wife  to  spy  out  her 
actions,  would  be  left  behind  before  half  the  journey 
was  accomplished. 


352  EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 

To  see  the  Mussulman  fair  sex,  it  is  well  to  go  one 
day  to  the  great  festival  of  the  Sweet  Waters  of  Eu- 
rope, at  the  end  of  the  Golden  Horn,  or  to  those  of  Asia, 
near  the  village  of  Anaduli-Hissar;  which  are  two  great 
public  gardens,  covered  with  groves  of  trees,  watered 
by  two  small  rivers,  and  sprinkled  with  cafes  and  foun- 
tains. There  over  a  vast  grassy  plain,  in  the  shade  of 
nut  trees,  pines,  plane  trees  and  sycamores,  forming  a 
succession  of  green  pavilions  where  no  ray  of  sun  pene- 
trates, are  to  be  seen  thousands  of  Turkish  women 
seated  in  groups  and  circles,  surrounded  by  their  female 
slaves,  eunuchs  and  children,  lunching  and  frolicking 
for  half  the  day,  in  the  midst  of  crowds  of  people  com- 
ing and  going.  They  have  hardly  arrived  when  they 
seem  to  fall  into  a  sort  of  dream.  It  seems  like  a  fes- 
tival in  the  paradise  of  Islam.  Those  myriads  of  white- 
veiled  figures,  clothed  in  fcrcdjcs  of  scarlet,  yellow,  green 
and  gray,  those  innumerable  groups  of  slaves  in  many- 
colored  garments,  that  throng  of  children  in  fanciful 
dresses,  the  large  Smyrna  carpets  spread  on  the  ground, 
the  gold  and  silver  vessels,  or  what  look  like  such,  pass- 
ing from  hand  to  hand,  the  Mussulman  coffee-seller  in 
gala-dress,  running  about  carrying  fruits  and  ices,  ciii- 
gari  dancing,  Bulgarian  shepherds  piping,  horses  trapped 
with  silk  and  gold  fastened  to  trees,  pashas,  beys,  and 
young  gentlemen  galloping  by  the  river-side,  the  move- 
ment of  the  distant  crowd  like  a  field  of  flowers,  many- 
colored  caiques,  and  splendid  carriages  arriving,  to 
mingle  other  colors  with  that  of  sea-color,  and  the  mur- 
mur of  songG,  flutes,  and  other  instrirments,  the  voices 
of  children,  in  the   midst  of  that  loveliness    of    green 


TURKISH  WOMEN  353 

shadow,  varied  here  and  there  with  glimpses  of  the  sun- 
lit landscape  beyond — all  present  a  spectacle  so  gay  and 
so  new  that  one  is  tempted  to  clap  one's  hands  and  cry 
out  Braz'issùìio!  as  in  a  theater. 

Even  here,  in  spite  of  the  confusion,  it  is  extremely 
rare  to  catch  a  Turkish  couple  in  the  act  of  exchanging 
amorous  glances,  or  smiles  and  gestures  of  mutual  in- 
telligence. Gallantry  coram  populo  does  not  exist  here 
as  in  Italy.  There  is  to  be  found  neither  the  melan- 
choly sentinel  who  passes  up  and  down  under  the  win- 
dow of  his  lady,  nor  the  panting  rear-guard  following 
for  three  hours  on  the  stretch  in  the  footsteps  of  his 
goddess.  If  it  should  happen  that  in  some  deserted 
street  a  young  Turk  is  surprised  looking  up  at  a  grated 
window,  from  which  sparkles  a  black  eye,  or  a  white 
hand  waves  for  an  instant,  you  may  be  quite  certain 
that  the  couple  are  betrothed.  To  the  betrothed  alone 
is  permitted  the  sweet  childishness  of  official  love-mak- 
ing, such  as  speaking  from  a  distance  by  means  of  a 
flower,  or  a  ribbon,  or  the  color  of  a  garment,  or  a 
scarf.  And  in  these  matters  the  Turkish  lady  is  mis- 
tress. They  have  a  thousand  objects,  among  flowers, 
fruits,  leaves,  feathers,  stones,  each  one  of  which  pos- 
sesses a  specific  meaning,  being  an  epithet  or  a  verb, 
or  even  a  complete  sentence,  so  that  they  can  make  a 
letter  out  of  a  bunch  of  flowers  or  say  a  hundred  things 
with  a  box  or  purse  full  of  various  small  objects  that 
seem  to  have  been  brought  together  casually.  A  clove, 
a  strip  of  paper,  a  section  of  a  pear,  a  bit  of  soap,  a 
match,  a  little  gold  thread  and  a  small  portion  of  cinna- 
mon and  pepper,  express  the  following:  'T  have  loved 

23 


354  EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 

you  long — I  burn,  I  languish,  I  die  for  love  of  you.  Give 
me  a  little  hope — do  not  repel  me — send  me  one  word  of 
reply."  They  can  say  many  other  things  besides;  re- 
proof, advice,  warning,  information,  all  can  be  conveyed 
in  this  way;  and  youthful  swains,  in  their  first  attack 
of  palpitation,  find  much  occupation  in  learning  the  sym- 
bolical phrases  and  composing  long  letters  addressed  to 
lovely  sultanas  seen  only  in  their  dreams.  There  is  also 
the  language  of  gesture,  some  of  which  is  most  graceful  ; 
that,  for  instance,  of  the  man  whO'  feigns  to  tear  his 
breast,  signifying:  "I  am  torn  by  the  furies  of  love,"  to 
which  the  lady  replies  by  letting  both  her  arms  fall  at 
her  sides,  which  means:  "I  open  my  arms  to  thee."  But 
there  is  not  perhaps  one  European  that  ever  has  seen 
these  things  ;  which  for  the  rest  are  now  more  traditional 
than  customary.  The  Turkish  ladies  would  blush  to 
specik  of  them,  and  only  here  and  there  some  ingenuous 
hanum  might  confide  them  to  some  Christian  friend  of 
her  own  sex. 

In  this  way  only  can  we  know  how  the  Turkish  woman 
is  dressed  within  the  walls  of  the  harem,  wearing  that 
beautiful,  capricious,  and  pompous  costume,  of  which  we 
all  have  some  idea,  and  which  gives  to  its  wearer  a 
princely  dignity,  as  well  as  a  child-like  grace.  We  never 
shall  see  it,  unless  the  fashion  is  adopted  in  our  own 
country;  for,  even  if  some  day  the  fcrcdjc  should  be 
thrown  aside,  the  lovely  Turks  would  be  found  to  wear 
the  European  dress  underneath.  What  a  disappointment 
for  the  painters,  and  what  a  pity!  Imagine  a  beautiful 
woman,  "slender  as  a  cypress,"  and  blushing  "with  all 
the  colors  of  the  rose,"  wearing,  a  little  on  one  side  of 


TURKISH  WOMEN  355 

her  head,  a  small  round  cap  of  crimson  velvet  embroid- 
ered with  silver  ;  her  black  tresses  falling  over  her  shoul- 
ders; her  vest  of  white  damask  worked  with  gold,  with 
wide,  open  sleeves,  and  parting  in  front  to  display  her 
full  drawers  of  rose-colored  silk,  falling  in  many  folds 
over  her  small  feet  clothed  in  slippers  with  turned-up 
Chinese  points  ;  a  sash  of  green  satin  round  her  waist  ; 
diamonds  on  her  neck,  in  her  hair,  at  her  girdle,  on  her 
arms,  in  her  ears,  on  the  border  of  her  cap,  on  her  slip- 
pers, buttoning  the  neck  of  her  chemise,  and  across  her 
forehead;  glittering  from  head  to  foot  like  a  Spanish 
Madonna,  and  lying  in  a  childish  attitude,  upon  a  broad 
divan,  surrounded  by  her  Circassian,  Arab,  and  Persian 
slave  women,  wrapped  like  antique  statues  in  their  flow- 
ing robes;  or  imagine  a  bride,  "white  as  the  crest  of 
Olympus,"  dressed  in  pale  blue  satin,  and  covered  with 
a  veil  of  woven  gold,  seated  upon  a  pearl-embossed  otto- 
man, in  front  of  which,  upon  a  carpet  from  Teheran, 
kneels  the  bridegroom,  making  his  final  prayer  before 
uncovering  his  treasure.  This  home  dress,  however,  is 
subject  to  the  caprice  of  fashion.  The  women,  having 
nothing  else  to  do,  pass  their  time  in  devising  new 
adornments;  cover  themselves  with  trinkets  and  fringes, 
put  feathers  and  ribbons  in  their  hair,  tie  bands  around 
their  foreheads,  and  strips  of  fur  about  their  necks  and 
arms;  borrowing  something  from  every  kind  of  Oriental 
costume.  And  they  mingle  European  fashions  with 
their  own  as  well;  they  wear  false  hair  and  dye  their 
own  black,  blond,  red,  making  themselves  as  artificial 
and  ridiculous  as  the  most  ambitious  of  their  European 
sisters;  cind  doubtless  if  by  the  waving  of  a  magic  wand 


356  EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 

at  the  Sweet  Waters  all  the  fcrcdjès  could  be  made  to 
fall,  we  should  see  as  great  and  strange  varieties  of  cos- 
tume among  the  women  as  are  to  be  seen  among  the 
men  upon  the  bridge  of  the  Sultana  Valide. 

The  apartments  in  which  these  rich  and  lovely  ladies 
dwell  correspond  in  some  sort  with  their  seductive  and 
bizarre  attire.  The  rooms  reserved  for  the  women  are 
generally  well  situated,  commanding  marvelous  views  of 
the  country,  sea,  and  city.  Below,  there  is  a  garden  svu- 
rounded  by  high  walls  clothed  with  ivy  and  jasmine; 
above,  a  terrace;  on  the  street  side,  small  projecting 
rooms  enclosed  with  glass  like  the  miradores  of  the  Span- 
ish houses.  The  rooms  are  almost  always  small;  the 
floors  covered  with  Chinese  mats  and  carpets,  the  ceil- 
ings painted  with  flowers  and  fruit,  large  divans  running 
along  the  walls,  a  marble  fountain  in  the  middle,  vases 
with  flowers  in  the  windows,  and  that  vague,  soft  light, 
peculiar  to  Oriental  houses,  dim  and  shaded,  like  a  wood, 
or  like  a  cloister,  or  sacred  spot,  where  you  are  impelled 
to  walk  and  speak  softly,  and  to  use  gentle,  sweet  words, 
discoursing  only  of  God  and  love.  The  decorations  of 
these  harems  are  generally  simple  and  severe,  but  there 
are  some  of  great  magnificence,  with  their  walls  covered 
with  white  satin  embroidered  in  gold,  ceilings  of  cedar 
wood,  gilded  gratings,  and  very  rich  furniture.  The 
manner  of  life  may  be  divined  from  the  furniture.  It 
consists  of  easy  chairs,  large  and  small  ottomans,  little 
carpets,  stools  and  foot-benches,  cushions  of  every  de- 
scription, and  mattresses  covered  with  shawls  and  bro- 
cades; the  whole  of  the  softest  and  most  luxurious  de- 
scription.     Here  and  there  may  be  seen  hand-mirrors 


TURKISH  WOMEN  357 

and  large  fans  of  ostrich  feathers;  carved  chibouks  are 
suspended  on  the  walls;  there  are  cages  full  of  birds  in 
the  windows,  perfume-burners  and  musical  clocks  on  the 
tables,  toys  and  small  objects  of  every  kind  testifying 
to  the  puerile  caprices  of  an  idle  woman.  Nor  is  this 
luxury  confined  to  the  things  that  are  seen.  There  are 
houses  in  which  the  table  service  is  of  gold  and  silver, 
the  napkins  are  of  satin  fringed  with  gold,  brilliants  and 
other  stones  glitter  on  the  forks  and  spoons,  the  coffee- 
cups,  pipes,  wine-coolers,  and  fans;  and  there  are  other 
houses,  in  much  greater  number,  of  course,  in  which  al- 
most nothing  has  been  changed  from  the  time  of  the  Tar- 
tar tent,  where  everything  could  be  packed  upon  one 
mule's  back,  and  be  ready  for  a  new  pilgrimage  across 
Asia  ;  houses  of  primitive  austerity  and  pure  Mohamme- 
danism ;  in  which,  when  the  hour  for  departure  shall  ar- 
rive, no  sound  shall  be  heard  but  the  wild  voice  of  the 
master,  saying:  Olsnn!  ("So  let  it  be"). 

The  Turkish  house  is  divided,  as  we  know,  into  two 
parts:  the  harem  and  the  sclamlik.  The  selamlik  is  the 
part  reserved  for  the  man.  Here  he  works,  receives  his 
friends,  takes  his  noon-day  nap,  and  usually  lives.  The 
wife  never  enters  it.  As  in  the  selamlik  the  man  is  mas- 
ter, so  the  woman  is  mistress  in  the  harem.  She  has 
full  powers  of  administration  there,  and  can  do  anything 
she  pleases  except  receive  men.  When  she  does  not 
choose  to  receive  her  husband,  she  can  decline  his  visit, 
and  politely  request  him  to  come  another  time.  One 
single  door  and  a  small  corridor  divide  the  harem  from 
the  selamlik;  but  they  are  as  distinct  as  two  separate 
houses.     The  servants  of  each  part  belong  only  to  that, 


358  EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 

and  there  are  two  kitchens.  Rarely  the  husband  dines 
with  his  wife,  especially  when  there  is  more  than  one. 
The  wife,  however,  must  be  always  prepared  for  her 
master's  visit,  dressed  and  looking  her  best,  ready  to 
vanquish  a  rival,  and  to  preserve  as  best  she  may  a  pre- 
dominance that  is  always  in  danger;  she  must  be  some- 
thing of  a  courtesan,  exercising  such  self-control  as  shall 
secure  a  smiling  aspect  of  things  about  her  lord,  and 
even  when  her  heart  is  sorrowful,  display  the  radiant 
visage  of  a  happy  and  fortunate  woman,  so  that  he  may 
not  be  disgusted  and  repelled.  Thus  the  husband  is 
rarely  acquainted  with  his  wife,  whom  he  never  has 
known  either  as  a  girl,  sister,  or  friend;  whom  he  does 
not  know  as  a  mother.  And  she  allows  the  nobler  part 
of  her  nature  to  perish  slowly  within  her,  there  being 
no  call  for  its  exercise,  no  opportunity  for  its  revelation  ; 
resolutely  stifling  the  voices  of  her  heart  and  conscience, 
to  find  in  a  sort  of  sleepy  animalism,  if  not  felicity,  at 
least  peace.  She  has,  it  is  true,  the  comfort  of  chil- 
dren, and  her  husband  plays  with  them,  and  caresses 
them  in  her  presence;  but  it  is  a  comfort  embittered  by 
the  thought  that  perhaps  an  hour  ago  he  caressed  the 
children  of  another;  that  an  hour  thence  he  may  be  ca- 
ressing those  of  a  third,  and  perhaps  within  the  year  a 
fourth.  The  love  of  the  lover,  the  affection  of  the  father, 
friendship,  confidence,  all  are  divided  and  subdivided,  as 
each  has  its  hour,  its  measure,  and  its  appropriate  cere- 
mony; so  everything  is  cold  and  insufficient. 

Yet  the  conditions  of  conjugal  life  vary  greatly,  ac- 
cording to  the  pecuniary  means  of  the  husband,  even 
without  counting  the  fact  that  one  who    is    not    rich 


TURKISH  WOMEN  359 

enough  to  maintain  more  than  one  woman,  is  obliged  to 
have  one  wife  only.  The  rich  noble  lives  separated  in 
body  and  mind  from  his  wife,  because  he  is  able  to  keep 
an  apartment  or  even  a  house  for  her  sole  use,  and  be- 
cause, wishing  to  receive  friends,  clients,  flatterers,  with- 
out his  wives  being  seen  or  disturbed,  he  is  obliged  to 
have  a  separate  residence.  The  middle-class  Turk,  for 
reasons  of  economy,  lives  nearer  to  his  wife,  sees  her 
more  frequently,  and  is  on  more  familiar  terms  with  her. 
Lastly,  the  poor  Turk  is  necessarily  obliged  to  eat,  sleep, 
and  pass  most  of  his  time  in  the  close  company  of  his 
wife  and  children.  Riches  divide,  poverty  unites.  In 
the  case  of  the  poor  man,  there  is  not  much  difference 
between  the  Turkish  and  the  Christian  household.  The 
woman  that  can  not  have  a  slave  does  her  own  work, 
and  labor  enhances  her  importance  and  authority.  It 
is  not  rare  to  see  her  drag  her  indolent  husband  from 
the  cafe  or  the  tavern,  and  drive  him  home  with  blows 
from  her  slipper.  They  treat  each  other  as  equals,  pass- 
ing the  evening  together  at  the  door  of  their  house;  in 
the  more  distant  quarters,  they  often  go  together  to  buy 
the  family  supplies;  the  husband  and  wife  are  often 
seen  eating  their  luncheon  together  in  a  cemetery  near 
the  tomb  of  some  dead  relative,  with  their  children  about 
them,  like  a  family  of  working  people  in  our  country. 

There  are  those  who  say  that  the  women  of  the  East 
are  satisfied  with  polygamy,  and  do  not  understand  the 
injustice  of  it.  To  believe  this,  one  must  be  ignorant 
not  only  of  the  East,  but  of  the  human  soul  itself.  If 
it  were  true,  that  would  not  happen  which  does  happen; 
namely,  that  there  is  hardly  any  Turkish  girl  who,  ac- 


360  EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 

cepting  the  hand  of  a  man,  does  not  make  it  a  condition 
that  he  shall  not  marry  again  during  her  lifetime;  there 
would  not  be  so  many  wives  returning  to  their  families 
because  the  husbands  have  failed  in  this  promise;  and 
the  Turkish  proverb  would  not  be  in  existence,  which 
says:  "A  house  with  four  women  is  like  a  ship  in  a 
tempest."  Even  if  she  is  adored  by  her  husband,  the 
Eastern  woman  can  but  curse  polygamy,  which  obliges 
her  to  live  with  the  sword  of  Damocles  above  her  head, 
having  from  day  to  day  a  rival,  not  hidden  and  remote 
and  always  guilty,  like  the  rival  of  the  European  wife, 
but  installed  beside  her,  in  her  own  house,  bearing  her 
title,  claiming  her  rights;  condemned  perhaps  to  see  her 
own  slave  promoted  to  an  equality  with  herself  and  giv- 
ing birth  to  sons  having  the  same  rights  as  her  own. 
It  is  impossible  that  she  should  not  feel  the  injustice 
of  such  a  law.  She  knows  that  when  her  husband  in- 
troduces a  rival  into  her  home,  he  is  but  putting  in 
practise  the  right  given  to  him  by  the  law  of  the  Pro- 
phet. But  in  the  bottom  of  her  soul  she  feels  that  there 
is  a  more  ancient  and  more  sacred  law  which  condemns 
his  act  as  traitorous  and  an  abuse  of  power;  that  the 
tie  between  them  is  undone;  that  her  life  is  ruined,  and 
she  has  the  right  of  rebellion.  And  even  if  she  does 
not  love  her  husband,  she  has  a  hundred  reasons  to  de- 
test the  law;  her  children's  interests  are  injured,  her 
own  self-respect  is  wounded,  and  she  finds  herself  in 
the  fatal  necessity  of  complete  abandonment,  or  of  liv- 
ing as  a  mere  chattel  for  her  husband's  use.  It  m.ay 
be  said  that  the  Turkish  woman  knows  that  the  same 
things  happen  to  her  European  sister;  true,  but  she  also 


TURKISH  WOMEN  361 

knows  that  the  latter  is  under  no  constraint  of  civil  and 
religious  law  to  respect  and  live  in  amity  with  her  who 
poisons  her  life,  and  that  she  has  at  least  the  consola- 
tion of  being  considered  as  a  victim,  having  besides 
many  ways  of  vindicating  and  alleviating  her  position, 
without  her  husband  being  able  to  sa;y,  like  the  Turk: 
'T  have  the  right  to  love  a  hundred  women,  but  it  is 
your  duty  to  love  me  only." 

It  is  true  that  the  Turkish  woman  has  many  legal 
guaranties,  and  many  privileges  conceded  to  her  by  cus- 
tom. She  is  usually  treated  with  certain  forms  of  knight- 
ly courtesy.  No  man  would  dare  to  lift  his  hand  against 
a  woman  in  the  public  street  (as  in  England).  No  sol- 
dier, even  in  times  of  popular  tumult  and  sedition,  would 
take  the  risk  of  maltreating  the  most  insolent  woman 
of  the  people.  The  husband  treats  his  wife  with  cere- 
monious courtesy.  The  mother  is  the  object  of  peculiar 
deference.  No  man  would  think  for  a  moment  of  living 
on  his  wife's  earnings.  The  husband  at  his  marriage 
assigns  a  dowry  to  his  bride  ;  she  brings  nothing  to  his 
house  but  her  wardrobe  and  a  few  female  slaves.  In 
case  of  repudiation  or  divorce,  the  man  is  obliged  to  give 
the  woman  enough  to  live  upon;  and  this  obligation 
saves  her  from  maltreatment  for  which  she  might  seek 
and  obtain  a  separation.  The  facility  of  divorce  reme- 
dies in  part  the  sad  consequences  of  matrimony  blindly 
contracted  under  the  constitution  of  Turkish  society, 
where  the  sexes  live  entirely  separated.  Very  little 
cause  is  needed  for  a  woman  to  obtain  her  divorce  :  that 
the  husband  has  ill-treated  her  once,  that  he  has  spoken 
ill  of  her  to  others,  that  he  has  been  unfaithful  for  a 


362  EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 

certain  time.  She  has  only  to  present  her  written  state- 
ment of  grievances  to  the  tribunal;  or,  she  can,  when 
opportunity  occurs,  go  in  person  before  a  vizier,  the 
grand  vizier  himself,  by  whom  she  is  received  and  lis- 
tened to  kindly  and  without  delay.  If  she  cannot  agree 
with  the  other  wives,  the  husband  is  bound  to  give  her 
a  separate  apartment  ;  and  even  if  she  does  agree,  she  has 
a  right  to  a  separate  apartment. 

A  woman  who  is  seduced  can  oblige  her  seducer  to 
marry  her  if  he  has  not  already  four  wives  ;  and  if  he  has 
four,  he  must  receive  her  as  an  odalisque  and  her  chil- 
dren must  be  recognized.  This  is  the  reason  that  among 
the  Turks  there  are  no  bastards.  Old  bachelors  are  rare, 
old  maids  very  rare  ;  forced  marriages  less  frequent  than 
might  be  supposed,  since  the  law  punishes  the  father  who 
is  guilty  of  coercion.  The  State  pensions  widows  that 
are  without  relatives  and  without  means,  and  provides  for 
the  orphans;  many  female  children  left  without  protec- 
tion are  taken  by  rich  ladies  who  educate  and  marry 
them;  it  is  very  unusual  for  a  woman  to  fall  into  mis- 
ery. All  this  is  true,  and  very  good;  but  it  does  not 
prevent  us  from  smiling  when  the  Turks  pretend  that 
the  social  condition  of  their  women  is  better  than  that 
of  ours,  and  that  their  society  enjoys  an  immunity  from 
the  corruption  of  which  European  manners  are  accused. 

From  all  this  one  may  easily  gather  what  sort  of  being 
the  Turkish  woman  is  likely  to  be.  The  greater  part  of 
them  are  only  pleasing  feminine  creatures.  Many  know 
how  to  read  and  write,  but  practise  neither  the  one  nor 
the  other;  and  those  who  have  a  superficial  culture  are 
miraculous  beings.  The  men,  according  to  whom  women 


TURKISH  WOMEN  363 

should  have  "long  hair  and  short  intelligence,"  do  not 
care  to  have  them  cultivate  their  minds,  and  prefer  that 
they  should  remain  inferior  to  themselves.  Thus,  hav- 
ing no  instruction  from  books,  and  receiving  none  from 
conversation,  they  are  grossly  ignorant.  From  the  sep- 
aration of  the  two  sexes  comes  the  absence  of  gentle 
manners  in  the  one  sex,  and  of  dignity  in  the  other;  the 
men  are  coarse,  and  the  women  vacant.  Having  no  so- 
ciety beyond  their  own  small  circle  of  women,  they  all 
retain  even  in  old  age  something  puerile  and  trifling  in 
their  ideas  and  manners;  a  wild  curiosity  about  every- 
thing, a  habit  of  being  astonished  on  the  smallest  occa- 
sion, an  immense  fussiness  over  nonsense  of  all  sorts, 
small  backbitings,  sudden  spites  and  tempers,  screams  of 
laughter  at  the  slightest  cause,  and  a  fondness  for  the 
most  childish  games,  such  as  chasing  one  another  from 
room  to  room  and  snatching  bonbons  from  one  another's 
mouth.  It  is  true  that  they  have,  to  turn  the  French 
saying  the  other  way,  the  good  qualities  of  their  defects  ; 
and  that  their  nature  is  transparent  and  plain,  to  be  seen 
through  at  the  first  glance  ;  real  persons,  as  Madame  de 
Sévigné  says,  not  masks,  nor  caricatures,  nor  monkeys; 
open  and  all  of  a  piece  even  in  their  sadness;  and  if  it 
be  true  that  it  is  only  necessary  for  one  of  them  to  swear 
to  a  thing  in  order  that  no  one  shall  believe  her,  it  only 
shows  that  they  are  not  artful  enough  to  be  deceitful. 
But  it  is  also  true  that  in  that  narrow  life,  deprived  of 
all  mental  or  spiritual  recreation,  in  which  the  instinc- 
tive desire  of  youth  and  beauty  for  praise  and  admira- 
tion remains  forever  ungratified,  their  souls  become  em- 
bittered and  exasperated;  and  having  no  education  to 


364  EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 

control  and  guide  them,  when  some  ugly  passion  moves 
them,  they  rush  into  excess.  Idleness  foments  in  them 
a  thousand  senseless  caprices,  which  they  pursue  ob- 
stinately and  will  have  gratified  at  any  price.  Besides, 
in  the  sensual  atm.osphere  of  the  harem,  in  the  constant 
company  of  women  inferior  to  themselves  in  birth  and 
position,  with  no  man  to  act  as  a  controlling  force,  they 
acquire  an  extraordinary  crudity  of  speech,  they  know 
no  delicacies  of  language,  they  say  things  v/ithout  a 
veil,  liking  best  the  word  that  might  raise  a  blush,  the 
shameless  jest  or  the  plebeian  equivoque;  and  are  often 
most  foul-mouthed,  indecent  and  insolent.  A  European 
who  understands  the  Turkish  language  may  sometimes 
hear  a  hanum  of  distinguished  appearance  abusing  some 
indiscreet  or  careless  shopkeeper  in  language  that  in  his 
own  country  could  not  be  heard  except  among  women  of 
the  lowest  and  most  abandoned  class. 

Many  have  described  the  Turkish  woman  as  all  sweet- 
ness, softness  and  submission.  But  there  are  among 
them  some  of  a  fierce  and  haughty  spirit,  not  to  say 
ferocious.  Even  there,  in  times  of  popular  tumult, 
women  are  to  be  seen  in  the  front  rank;  they  arm  them- 
selves, crowd  together,  stop  the  carriages  of  the  offend- 
ing viziers,  cover  them  with  abuse,  throw  stones  at  them, 
and  resist  armed  force.  They  are  kind  and  gentle,  like 
most  women,  when  no  passion  gnaws  or  excites  them. 
They  treat  their  slaves  well  enough,  if  they  are  not  jeal- 
ous of  them;  they  show  tenderness  for  their  children, 
although  they  do  not  know  how,  or  do  not  care,  to  edu- 
cate them;  they  contract  with  one  another,  especially 
those  that  are  separated  from  their  husbands  or  afflicted 


TURKISH  WOMEN  365 

with  a  common  sorrow,  the  most  tender  friendships,  full 
of  girlish  enthusiasm,  and  show  their  reciprocal  affec- 
tion by  wearing  the  same  color,  or  the  same  fashion  of 
garment,  and  using  the  same  perfumes. 

As  is  their  nature,  so  are  their  manners.  The  greater 
part  of  them  are  like  those  young  girls  of  good  family, 
brought  up  in  the  country,  who,  no  longer  children  but 
not  yet  women,  are  constantly  committing  in  company 
a  hundred  amiable  absurdities,  causing  their  mammas  to 
frown  and  shake  their  heads.  To  hear  a  European  lady 
relate  her  experience  while  paying  a  visit  in  a  harem  is 
truly  comic.  The  liamiiu,  for  instance,  who  at  first  is 
seated  on  the  sofa  in  the  same  decorous  attitude  as  her 
visitor,  suddenly  throws  her  arms  over  her  head  and 
emits  a  loud  yawn,  or  seizes  one  of  her  knees  between 
her  hands.  Accustomed  to  the  liberty,  or  rather  license, 
of  the  harem,  to  the  attitude  of  idleness  and  ennui,  and 
weakened  by  much  warm  bathing,  she  tires  immediately 
of  any  upright  position.  She  throws  herself  down  on 
her  divan,  turning  and  twisting  about,  and  getting  her 
long  garments  into  an  inextricable  entanglement;  she 
leans  on  her  elbows,  she  takes  her  feet  in  her  hands,  she 
puts  a  cushion  on  her  knees  and  her  elbow  in  the  cush- 
ion, she  stretches  out  her  limbs,  and  draws  them  up  in 
a  heap,  she  puts  up  her  back  like  a  cat,  rolls  from  the 
divan  upon  the  carpet,  and  from  the  carpet  to  the  marble 
floor,  and  sleeps  when  she  is  sleepy  wherever  she  finds 
herself,  like  a  baby.  A  French  traveler  has  said  that 
she  has  a  good  deal  of  the  mollusk  in  her  composition. 
Their  least  relaxed  position  is  that  of  sitting  with  crossed 
legs,  and  from  this  habit  probably  comes  the  fact  that 


366  EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 

their  legs  are  slightly  bowed.  But  with  what  grace 
they  sit!  They  sink  to  the  ground  without  using  their 
hands  to  support  them,  and  remain  like  statues,  motion- 
less (all  this  may  be  seen  in  the  gardens  and  cemeteries), 
and  rise  all  of  a  piece,  as  if  set  on  springs.  The  grace 
of  the  Turkish  woman  is  in  repose,  and  in  the  art  of 
displaying  the  soft  lines  and  curves  of  the  reclining  form, 
with  head  thrown  back,  hair  flowing,  and  helpless  arms* 
— the  art  of  extracting  gold  and  gems  from  her  husband. 
There  are  two  other  kinds  of  harems  besides  the  pa- 
cific and  the  stormy  :  the  harem  of  the  young  Turk  with- 
out prejudices,  who  encourages  his  wife  in  her  Euro- 
pean tendencies;  and  that  of  the  conservative,  either  by 
his  own  convictions,  or  dominated  by  his  relatives,  in 
general  by  some  inflexible  old  Mussulman  mother,  who 
governs  the  house  as  suits  herself.  In  the  first  there  is  a 
piano,  and  a  Christian  lady  as  teacher;  there  are  work- 
tables,  straw  chairs,  a  mahogany  bedstead,  and  a  writ- 
ing-desk; on  the  wall  hangs  a  fine  portrait  of  the  effen- 
di, done  by  an  Italian  artist  of  Pera  ;  in  a  comer  a  book- 
shelf with  a  few  books,  among  them  a  small  French- 
and-Turkish  dictionary,  and  the  illustrated  Journal  des 
Modes,  which  the  lady  receives  from  the  wife  of  the 
Spanish  Consul.  She  also  paints  fruit  and  flowers  in 
water-colors  with  much  enthusiasm.  She  assures  her 
friends  that  she  is  never  lonely  or  ennuyce.  Between 
one  employment  and  another  she  writes  her  memoirs. 
At  a  certain  hour  she  receives  her  French  teacher  (an 
old,  crooked-backed  man,  of  course),  with  whom  she 
practises  conversation.  Sometimes  a  German  photogra- 
pher from  Calata  comes  to  take  her  portrait.     When  she 


TURKISH  WOMEN  357 

is  ill,  she  is  visited  by  a  European  physician,  who  may 
even  be  a  handsome  young  man,  the  husband  not  being 
stupidly  jealous  like  his  antiquated  friends.  And  once 
in  a  while  comes  a  French  dressmaker,  who  takes  her 
measure  for  a  costume  modeled  on  the  very  latest  fash- 
ion-plate, with  which  Madame  intends  to  surprise  her 
husband  on  Thursday  evening,  the  sacred  evening  in 
Mussulman  houses,  when  the  husband  is  expected  to 
pay  his  debts  of  gallantry  toward  his  "roseleaf."  And 
the  effendi,  who  is  a  man  of  high  aspirations,  has  prom- 
ised her  that  she  shall  certainly  have  a  glimpse,  through 
some  half-open  door,  of  the  next  grand  ball  that  is  given 
by  the  English  Ambassador.  In  short,  the  hanum  is  a 
European  lady  of  the  Mohammedan  religion,  and  she 
tells  her  friends  complacently  that  she  lives  like  a 
cocona — like  a  Christian;  her  friends,  as  far  as  they  can, 
following  her  exam.ple.  But  in  the  other  harem  all  is 
rigorously  Turkish,  from  the  attire  of  the  ladies  down 
to  the  minutest  household  detail.  The  Koran  is  the 
only  book,  the  Stambonl  the  only  journal  allowed. 
If  the  hanmn  be  ill,  one  of  the  numerous  Turkish  female 
doctors  is  called,  who  has  a  miraculous  specific  for  every 
known  malady.  All  the  openings  in  the  house  are  well 
grated  and  bolted,  and  nothing  European,  except  the 
air,  can  enter;  unless  the  lady  has  had  the  misfortune 
to  learn  French  in  her  childhood,  in  which  case  her 
sister-in-law  brings  her  French  romances  of  the  worst 
type,  telling  her  at  the  same  time:  "See  what  kind  of 
society  this  is  which  you  are  aping!  What  fine  doings! 
What  admirable  examples!" 

And  yet  the  life  of  the  Turkish  woman  is  full  of  ac- 


368  EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 

cidents,  worries,  and  small  gossip  and  tale-bearing,  that 
at  the  first  aspect  do  not  seem  possible  in  a  society 
where  the  two  sexes  are  so  divided.  In  one  harem,  for 
instance,  is  the  old  mother  who  wishes  to  drive  out  one 
of  the  wives  to  make  room  for  a  favorite  of  her  own, 
and  tries  in  every  way  to  influence  her  son  against  her 
and  her  children.  In  another  it  is  the  wife  who  is  jeal- 
ous of  a  rival  in  her  husband's  affections,  and  moves 
heaven  and  earth  to  get  a  handsome  slave  woman  and 
put  her  in  his  way,  in  order  that  in  this  manner  she  may 
detach  him  from  the  other.  Another  wife,  who  has  a 
natural  leaning  toward  match-making,  racks  her  brains 
to  bring  about  a  marriage  between  some  male  relative 
of  her  own  and  some  young  girl  of  her  household,  thus 
circumventing  her  husband,  who  has  had  his  eyes  turned 
in  the  same  direction.  Here  it  is  a  number  of  ladies 
subscribing  to  a  fund  wherewith  to  buy  a  handsome 
slave  woman,  and  present  her  to  the  Sultan,  or  the 
Grand  Vizier;  there,  another  group  of  ladies,  highly 
placed,  are  busy  pulling  a  hundred  secret  wires,  where- 
by some  powerful  enemy  is  to  be  pulled  down,  some 
friend  saved,  some  importunate  person  sent  into  a  dis- 
tant province.  And  although  there  is  less  social  com- 
munion than  among  us,  there  is  just  as  much  gossip 
about  other  people's  affairs.  The  fame  of  a  woman  of 
high  spirit,  or  of  a  specially  evil  tongue,  or  of  a  ferocious 
jealousy,  is  spread  far  beyond  the  circle  of  her  acquain- 
tance. There  also,  pointed  speeches  and  fine  plays  upon 
words,  to  which  the  Turkish  language  readily  lends  it- 
self, are  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth  and  from  circle 
to  circle.     Births,  circumcisions,  marriages,  all  the  small 


TURKISH  WOMEN  369 

events  that  happen  in  the  European  colony  and  in  the 
SeragHo,  are  subjects  of  endless  discussion.  "Have  you 
seen  the  new  bonnet  of  the  French  ambassadress?" 
"Who  knows  about  the  handsome  Georgian  slave  that 
the  Sultana  Valide  is  going  to  present  to  the  Sultan  on 
the  day  of  the  great  Beiram?"  "Is  it  true  that  Ahmed- 
Pasha's  wife  was  seen  yesterday  in  a  pair  of  European 
boots  trimmed  with  silk  tassels?"  "Have  the  costumes 
for  the  Bourgeois  Gcntillwiiimc  at  the  Seraglio  Theater  yet 
arrived  from  Paris?"  "It  is  a  week  since  Mahmoud 
Effendi's  wife  began  to  pray  for  the  grace  of  twins,  in 
the  mosque  at  Bajazet."  "There  has  been  a  scandal  at 
the  photographer  so  and  so's  at  Pera,  because  Ahmed 
Effendi  found  his  wife's  portrait  there."  "Madame 
Ayesha  drinks  wine."  "Madame  Fatima  has  got  visit- 
ing-cards." "Madame  Hafiten  has  been  seen  to  go  into 
a  Prankish  shop  at  three,  and  come  out  at  four."  And 
so  on,  ad  infinitìiìn. 

It  would  be  singularly  diverting  if  there  w^ere  among 
the  Turks,  as  among  us,  those  living  gazettes  of  the 
fashionable  world  who  know  everybody  and  everybody's 
history;  it  would  be  both  amusing  and  instructive  to 
plant  oneself  on  a  holiday  at  the  entrance  to  the  Euro- 
pean Sweet  Waters  in  company  with  one  of  these,  and 
hear  his  comments  upon  the  notabilities  as  they  pass  by. 
"That,"  he  would  say,  "is  a  lady  who  has  lately  broken 
with  her  husband  and  gone  to  live  at  Scutari;  Scutari 
is  the  refuge  for  all  malcontents  and  quarrelsome  peo- 
ple; she  is  staying  with  a  friend,  and  will  remain,  until 
her  husband,  who  really  cares  for  her,  comes  and  makes 
it  up.     This  eifcndi  now  going  by  is  a  clerk  of  the  Min- 

24 


370  EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 

istry  of  Foreign  Affairs,  who  has  lately  married  an  Arab 
slave,  and  she  is  now  learning  Turkish  from  his  sister. 
This  pretty  one  is  a  divorced  wife,  who  is  only  waiting 
until  a  certain  effendi  shall  have  gotten  rid  of  one  of 
his  four,  to  go  and  take  the  place  that  was  promised  her. 
That  other  dame  is  a  lady  who  has  been  twice  divorced 
from  the  same  husband,  and  now  wishes  to  marry  him 
a  third  time,  he  agreeing  to  do  so;  and  so  she  will  be 
married  in  a  day  or  two,  as  the  law  commands,  to  anoth- 
er man,  from  whom  she  will  be  divorced  the  following 
day,  after  which  the  lovely  capricious  one  can  celebrate 
her  third  nuptials  with  her  first  spouse.  The  brunette 
with  the  lively  eyes  is  an  Abyssinian  slave  presented 
by  a  great  lady  of  Cairo  to  a  great  lady  of  Stamboul, 
who  died,  and  left  her  mistress  of  the  house.  That  ef- 
fendi of  fifty  has  had  ten  wives.  That  little  old  woman 
in  green  can  boast  of  having  been  the  legitimate  wife 
of  twelve  husbands.  Here  comes  a  lady  who  is  making 
a  fortune  by  buying  girls  of  fourteen,  having  them 
taught  music,  singing  and  dancing,  and  the  fine  man- 
ners of  noble  houses,  and  then  selling  them  at  a  profit 
of  five  hundred  per  cent.  Here  is  another,  who  was  first 
a  slave,  then  an  odalisque,  then  a  wife,  then  divorced, 
then  married  again,  and  now  she  is  a  widow  and  is  look- 
ing out  for  a  good  marriage.  That  man  is  a  merchant 
who  for  business  reasons  has  married  four  wives,  who 
live,  one  at  Constantinople,  one  at  Trebizond,  one  at 
Salonica,  and  one  at  Alexandria  in  Egypt,  by  which  ar- 
rangement he  has  four  different  houses  where  he  may 
repose  from  the  fatigues  of  his  journeys.  That  hand- 
some pasha  of  twenty-four  was  only  a  month  ago  a  poor 


TURKISH  WOMEN  371 

subaltern  officer  of  the  Imperial  Guard,  and  the  Sultan 
made  him  pasha  and  married  him  to  one  of  his  sisters; 
but  his  sultana  is  known  to  be  *as  jealous  as  a  night- 
ingale,' and  perhaps,  if  we  were  to  search  the  crowd,  we 
might  discover  a  slave  watching  to  see  whom  he  looks 
at,  and  who  looks  at  him.  See  this  child  of  five  years 
old!  She  was  this  morning  betrothed  to  a  small  boy 
of  eight;  the  gentleman  was  carried  by  his  parents  to 
pay  his  bride  a  visit,  found  her  much  to  his  taste,  and 
went  into  a  fury  because  a  cousin  three  feet  high  dared 
to  kiss  her  in  his  presence.  Ah!  what  have  we  lost! 
A  Seraglio  carriage  has  gone  by,  and  the  Sultan's  third 
wife  was  in  it;  I  recognized  it  by  the  rose-colored  rib- 
bon on  the  intendant's  neck;  his  third  wife  presented  to 
him  by  the  Pasha  of  Smyrna;  she  has  the  largest  eyes 
and  the  smallest  mouth  in  the  world;  a  face  something 
like  that  little  hanum  there  with  the  arched  nose,  who 
yesterday  had  a  flirtation  with  an  English  artist  of  my 
acquaintance.  The  little  wretch  !  and  to  think  that  when 
the  angels  Nekir  and  Mukir  come  to  judge  her  soul,  she 
will  try  to  get  off  with  the  usual  lie,  saying  that  she 
had  her  eyes  shut  and  did  not  recognize  the  infidel!" 

But  then  there  are  unfaithful  Turkish  wives?  With- 
out doubt  there  are  such;  and  this  notwithstanding  the 
jealousy  of  their  lords,  and  the  vigilance  of  their  eunuchs, 
notwithstanding  the  hundred  blows  with  a  whip  with 
which  the  Koran  threatens  the  culprit,  notwithstanding 
the  species  of  mutual  assurance  society  formed  by  Turks 
among  themselves.  It  may  be  even  affirmed  that  the 
"veiled  ones"  of  Constantinople  commit  as  many  sins 
as  the  unveiled  ones  of  other  countries.      If  this  were 


372  EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 

not  so,  Caraghcns  (The  Turkish  Punch)  would  not  so 
often  have  upon  his  Hps  the  word  kcrata,  which,  trans- 
lated into  a  classic  name,  means  Menelaus.  It  must  be 
said,  however,  that  women  are  no  longer  thrown  into 
the  Bosphorus  either  with  or  without  a  sack,  and  that 
punishment  and  the  bastinado  are  no  longer  practised 
even  by  the  most  ferocious  kerata.  The  force  of  ridi- 
cule, as  well  as  other  European  forces,  has  found  its 
way  into  Mussulman  society,  and  even  jealousy  is  afraid 
of  that.  And  besides,  Turkish  jealousy  being  more  the 
effect  of  self-love  than  affection  (and  certainly  it  is 
powerful  and  vindictive  enough),  has  not  that  indefatig- 
able and  investigating  eye  that  belongs  to  the  more 
spiritual  passion.  The  Turkish  authorities  do  their  best 
to  prevent  certain  abuses.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  in 
the  orders  given  to  the  police  of  Constantinople  on  holi- 
day occasions,  the  larger  part  refer  to  the  women,  and 
are  directly  leveled  at  them  in  the  form  of  advice  and 
threats.  It  is  forbidden,  for  instance,  to  let  them  enter 
the  back  shops,  or  rooms  behind  the  shops;  they  must 
stay  where  they  can  be  seen  from  the  street.  They  are 
not  to  go  in  the  tramways  for  amusement;  or  they  are 
to  get  out  at  the  terminus  and  not  come  bark  by  the  same 
way.  They  are  forbidden  to  make  signs,  to  stop  at  this 
place,  to  pass  by  that  place,  to  stay  more  than  a  certain 
time*  at  a  certain  spot.  And  then  there  is  that  blessed 
veil,  which,  originally  intended  as  a  safeguard  for  the 
woman,  is  now  turned  into  a  mere  screen  for  intrigue 
and  coquetry. 

The  bath-houses  are  the  places  where    the    Turkish 
women  meet  to  plot  and  gossip.     The  bath  is  in  a  cer- 


TURKISH  WOMEN  373 

tain  way  their  theater.  They  go  in  couples  and  groups, 
with  their  slaves  carrying  cushions,  carpets,  articles  for 
the  toilet,  sweetmeats,  and  often  their  dinner,  so  that 
they  may  remain  all  day.  There  in  those  dimly  lighted 
halls,  among  marbles  and  fountains,  are  often  gathered 
more  than  two  hundred  women,  naked  as  nymphs,  or 
only  partially  clothed,  presenting,  according  to  the  tes- 
timony of  European  women,  a  spectacle  to  make  a  hun- 
dred painters  drop  their  brushes.  Here  may  be  seen 
the  snow-white  haiium  beside  the  ebony  black  slave  ;  the 
matron  of  opulent  charms  beloved  by  the  Turk  of  an- 
tique taste;  slender  little  brides  with  short,  curling, 
childish  locks;  golden-haired  Circassians,  and  Turkish 
women  with  their  black  tresses  braided  into  an  infinity 
of  little  tails,  like  an  enormous  wig  ;  one  with  an  amulet 
on  her  neck,  another  with  a  sprig  of  garlic  bound  round 
her  head  as  a  charm  against  the  evil  eye;  half  savages 
with  tattooed  arms,  and  fashionable  dames  whose  bodies 
bear  the  traces  of  corsets,  and  their  ankles  the  marks 
of  French  boots  ;  and  some  whose  shoulders  show  signs 
of  the  eunuch's  whip.  Some  are  stretched  upon  their 
mats,  smoking;  some  are  having  their  hair  combed  by 
their  slave  women;  some  are  embroidering;  others  sing- 
ing, chattering,  laughing,  and  slandering  their  neighbors 
in  the  next  group.  A  European  woman  among  them  is 
the  object  of  immense  curiosity  and  a  thousand  idle 
questions:  "Is  it  true  that  you  go  to  balls  with  your 
shoulders  bare?  And  what  does  your  effendi  think  of 
that?  And  what  do  the  other  men  say?  And  how  do 
you  dance?  That  way! — really? — well,  I  should  not 
have  believed  it  if  I  had  not  seen  it!" 


374  EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 

They  are  delighted  to  receive  a  European  lady  in  their 
houses,  and  on  such  occasions  they  invite  their  friends, 
display  all  their  slaves  and  their  treasures,  load  the  vis- 
itor with  sweets  and  fruits,  and  seldom  let  her  go  with- 
out making  her  accept  a  present.  The  sentiment  that 
moves  them  to  these  demonstrations  is  more  curiosity 
than  kindness;  and  as  soon  as  they  are  familiar  with 
their  new  acquaintance,  they  examine  her  costume  bit 
by  bit,  from  bonnet  to  boots,  and  are  not  satisfied  until 
they  have  conducted  her  to  the  bath,  where  they  may 
see  how  a  nazarene  is  made.  But  they  no  longer  have 
the  contemptuous  dislike  that  they  once  nourished  for 
their  European  sisters.  On  the  contrary,  they  feel 
humiliated  in  their  presence,  and  seek  to  imitate  in 
every  way  their  dress  and  manners.  If  they  study  lan- 
guages, it  is  in  order  to  introduce  a  word  here  and  there 
to  show  their  knowledge,  but  above  all,  it  is  to  be  able 
to  converse  with  a  Christian,  and  to  be  called  Madame. 
They  frequent  certain  Prankish  shops  on  purpose  to  be 
addressed  by  that  coveted  title;  and  Pera  attracts  them 
as  a  light  attracts  moths.  They  seek  to  know  Prankish 
women  in  order  to  learn  from  them  something  of  the 
splendors  and  amusements  of  their  world,  but  it  is  not 
only  the  varied  and  feverish  life  of  gayety  that  attracts 
them;  more  often  it  is  the  domestic  life,  the  little  world 
of  a  European  family,  the  circle  of  friends,  the  table  sur- 
rounded with  children,  the  honored  and  beloved  old  age  ; 
that  sanctuary  full  of  memories,  of  confidence  and  ten- 
derness, which  can  make  the  union  of  two  persons  good 
even  without  the  passion  of  love;  to  which  we  turn  even 
after  a  long  life  of  aberration  and  faults;  in  which,  even 


TURKISH  WOMEN  375 

among  the  tempests  of  youth  and  the  pangs  of  the  pres- 
ent, the  heart  finds  refuge  and  comfort,  as  a  promise  of 
peace  for  later  years,  the  beauty  of  a  serene  sunset  seen 
from  the  depths  of  some  dark  valley. 

But  there  is  one  great  thing  to  be  said  for  the  com- 
fort of  those  who  lament  the  fate  of  the  Turkish  woman; 
this  is,  that  polygamy  is  declining  from  day  to  day.  It 
has  always  been  considered  by  the  Turks  themselves 
rather  as  a  tolerated  abuse  than  as  a  natural  right  of 
man.  Mohammed  said  :  "That  man  is  to  be  praised  who 
has  but  one  single  wife,"  although  he  himself  had  sev- 
eral; and  those  who  wish  to  set  an  example  of  honest 
and  austere  manners  never  in  fact  marry  but  one  wife. 
He  who  has  more  than  one  is  not  openly  blamed,  but 
neither  is  he  approved.  The  Turks  that  sustain  poly- 
gamy are  few,  and  still  fewer  those  who  approve  it  in 
their  hearts.  All  those  who  are  in  a  social  position  that 
imposes  a  certain  respectability  and  dignity  of  life  have 
but  one  wife.  The  higher  officers  of  the  ministry,  those 
of  the  army,  magistrates,  and  men  of  religion,  all  have 
but  one.  Four-fifths  of  the  Turks  of  Constantinople  are 
against  polygamy.  The  fact  is  this:  that  the  transfor- 
mation of  Turkish  society  is  not  possible  without  the 
redemption  of  the  woman,  that  this  is  not  practicable 
without  the  fall  of  polygamy,  and  that  polygamy  must 
fall.  It  is  probable  that  no  voice  would  be  raised  if  a 
decree  of  the  Sultan  were  to  suppress  it  to-morrow.  The 
edifice  is  rotten  and  must  fall.  The  new  dawn  already 
tinges  the  terraces  of  the  harem  with  rose.  Hope,  O 
lovely  hanums!  The  doors  of  the  selamlik  will  be  opened, 
the  grates  will  fall,  the  feredjè  will  go  to  decorate  the 


376  EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 

museum  o£  the  Grand  Bazaar,  the  eunuch  will  become 
a  mere  black  memory  of  childhood,  and  you  shall  freely 
display  to  the  world  the  graces  of  your  visages  and  the 
treasures  of  your  minds.  And  then,  when  "the  pearls 
of  the  Orient"  are  spoken  of  in  Europe,  to  you,  O  white 
hanums,  will  be  the  allusion!  to  you,  beautiful  Mussul- 
mans, gentle,  witty  and  cultured;  not  to  the  useless 
pearls  that  encircle  your  foreheads  in  the  midst  of  the 
cold  pomp  of  the  harem.  Courage!  then,  for  the  sun 
is  rising.  As  for  me — and  this  I  say  for  my  incredulous 
friends — I  have  not  yet  renounced  the  hope  of  giving 
my  arm  to  the  wife  of  a  pasha  in  the  streets  of  Turin, 
and  of  conducting  her  for  a  walk  on  the  banks  of  the  Po, 
reciting  to  her  meanwhile  a  chapter  from  /  Promessi 
Sposi. 


POEMS 

BY 

GABRIELE  D'ANNUNZIO 

TRANSLATED  BY  G.  A.  GREENE 


«77 


INTRODUCTION 

^àL^ERSATILITY  is  one  of  the  marked  character- 
Irj      istics  of   D'Annunzio's   genius;   he   is  painter, 

.^  *  musician,  novelist,  playwright,  poet  all  in  one. 
His  earliest  efforts  in  the  realm,  of  art  were 
made  in  painting,  after  the  manner  of  Filippo  Lippi  and 
Botticelli.  But  at  eighteen  he  began  to  read  the  poetry 
of  Giosuè  Carducci,  the  effect  of  which  was  to  thrill  the 
untried  poetic  chord  in  his  own  nature,  bringing  into  his 
native  language  creations  of  marvelous  strength  and 
beauty.  While  he  was  hardly  more  than  a  boy,  he  rose 
at  once  to  the  foremost  literary  rank  of  his  day.  Some 
of  this  early  work  was  condemned  by  the  severer  critics 
for  its  riot  of  exuberance  in  erotic  description,  its  un- 
usual phrases,  and  total  disregard  of  all  conventions, 
but  no  censure  could  drown  the  true  music  of  the  poet's 
song.  His  first  poem  was  entitled  Primo  Vere  (1879). 
During  the  three  years  following  his  removal  to  Rome 
(in  1880),  he  published  two  volumes  of  poems:  Canto 
Novo  and  Intermesso  di  Rime,  which  established  him  for 
all  time  as  one  of  the  first  of  Italian  poets.  Later  he 
turned  his  attention  to  the  writing  of  novels,  in  which 
field  he  achieved  a  success  no  less  brilliant.  The  most 
notable  of  these,  //  Fuoco  ("The  Flame"),  is  included  in 
this  series,  in  which  volume  will  be  found  a  more  ex- 
tended sketch  of  his  career. 


379 


THE  LOVE-CHILD 


He  was  a  love-child.      In  his  gloomy  eye 

Burned  flames  of  desperate  hatred,  prompt  to  glow, 
Like  lurid  gleams  of  sunset  from  the  sky 

Fallen  in  foul  waters  of  a  ditch  below  ; 
Pale,  lean  he  was  ;  his  red  hair  stood  up  high 

Over  his  head  deformed  and  marked  with  woe, 
And   his  misshapen  body  made   awry 

As  if  from  stone  hewn  by  an  ax's  blow. 
And  yet — !     None  knew  his  heart-beats  in  the  night, 

None  saw  his  burning  tears,  none  heard  him  weep 
Tears  breaking  his  poor  heart,  in  youth's  despite. 

When  o'er  the  deck  broke  from  the  odorous  deep 
Vast  waves  of  perfume  'neath  the  full  moonlight. 

And  naught  was  heard  save  long-drawn  sighs  of  sleep. 

II 

Ah,  none!     She  passes  o'er  the  sands  of  gold. 

Singing  a  song,  and  with  the  sunlight  crowned; 
Given  to  the  Loves,  her  ample  breasts  unfold, 

Given  to  the  winds,  her  tresses  flow  unbound. 
Joyous  with  youth,  her  honest  eyes  and  bold, 

Blue  like  the  tropic  skies,  seek  all  around 
Fancies  and  dreams,  while  to  the  heavens  out-rolled 

O'er  the  opal  sea  her  joyous  songs  resound. 
He,  breathless,  quivering  with  passions  vain, 

Crouched  in  the  boat  along  the  swaying  keel, 
Holds  in  his  hands  his  temples  filled  with  pain — 

"See  to  the  nets!"  the  skipper's  orders  peal. 
Who  kicks  him  where  he  lies.      And  o'er  the  main 

Her  jocund  songs  arise,  rebound  and  wheel. 

381 


382  GABRIELE  D'ANNUNZIO 


III 

Her  song  ran:  "Sea- weeds!  flowers  o'  the  ample  sea! 

Down  in  the  waters  green  the  mermaids  dwell 
In  gardens  coraline,  where  mansions  be, 

Built  for  fair  maids  that  love  their  sweethearts  well." 
Her  song  ran:  "Flowers  of  May  on  the  hawthorn  tree! 

There  is  a  grotto  made  of  many  a  shell, 
Deep  in  the  waters  blue,  a  home  of  glee. 

Built  for  fair  maids  that  love's  sweet  story  tell." 
And  Rufus  said  to  himself:  "I  am  a  cur! 

For  me  there  is  no  smile  for  dear  love's  sake, 
And  never  a  kiss  for  me!      I  am  a  cur! 

Up!      Draw  the  bridle  tight!     I  work  and  ache; 
My  blood  I  sell  for  bread,  while  none  demur: 

Yet — if  one  day  the  worn-out  cord  should  break?" 


IV 


The  murderer  climbed  the  cliff  with  hurrying  feet. 

With  pale  and  anxious  face,  with  aching  head. 
Like  a  wild  beast  struck  mad  in  the  summer  heat. 

Grasping  the  guilty  knife  still  dripping  red. 
The  angry  sea-gulls  in  battalions  fleet 

Raised  o'er  the  crags  their  clamorous  shout,  and  fled; 
And  the  death-cry  shook  far  off  a  lugger's  sheet, 

As  he  hurled  himself  to  waves  that  onward  sped. 
Far  echoed  o'er  the  golden  sands  the  sound 

Of  human  labor;  mournful  and  unblest. 
Voices  of  women  surged  along  the  ground; 

And  tossed  upon  the  sea's  sublime  unrest. 
On  emerald  deeps  with  zones  of  glory  crowned, 

A  corpse  turned  to  the  sun  its  shattered  breast. 


POEMS  383 


MOONLIGHT 


Beneath  the  white  full  moon  the  murmuring  seas 

Send  songs  of  love  across  the  pine-tree  glade; 
The  moonlight  filtering  through  the  dome-topped  trees 

Fills  with  weird  life  the  vast  and  secret  shade; 
A  fresh,  salt  perfume  on  the  Illyrian  breeze 

From  sea-weeds  on  the  rocks  is  hither  swayed, 
While  my  sad  heart,  worn  out  and  ill  at  ease, 

A  wild  poetic  longing  doth  invade. 
But  now  more  joyous  still  the  love-songs  flow 

O'er  waves  of  silver  sea;  from  pine  to  pine 
A  sweet  name  echoes  in  the  winds  that  blow. 

And,  hovering  through  yon  spaces  diamantine, 
A  phantom  fair  with  silent  flight  and  slow 

Smiles  on  me  from  its  great-orbed  eyes  divine. 


O  MAIDEN  STRANGE! 

O  maiden  strange  with  great  and  wandering  eyes 
Mysterious,  bright  and  deep  as  the  sea  is  deep, 
Fair  maid,  'tis  not  for  me  to  immortalize 
That  smile  which  in  my  songs  I  cannot  keep! 
And  yet  the  rhymes  of  love  that  murmuring  rise 
Like  the  hum  of  a  hive  afar,  and  onward  sweep, 
Swarming  the  circle's  bounds  where  magic  lies, 
Lull  thee,  white  witch,  into  a  dreamy  sleep: 
And  while  thou  see'st,  in  delicate  shades  forlorn 
Of  mournful  eve,   the  hill-top's  outline  flee, 
Where  whiffs  of  perfume  o'er  the  wave  are  borne, 
Thou  dreamest  of  a  skiff  that  sailing  free 
Enters  the  harbor's  mouth  by  the  breeze  of  mom, 
'Mid  opal  surges  of  the  violet  sea. 


384  GABRIELE  D'ANNUNZIO 


EVENING  IN  MAY 

Now  in  the  Mayday  twilight 
O'er  the  bright  skies  pearl-colored  clouds  float  through 
the  emerald  spaces, 
While  on  the  shore  the  wavelets 
Lightly  take  hands,  rise  and  subside,    dance  like  ena- 
mored naiads. 

Never  a  sail  is  seen  there; 
But  with  gay  song  swallows  afar  fleetly  wing  o'er  the 
waters, 

Stretched  in  long  lines  of  shadow: 
Sharp  acute  odors  of  tar  come  on  the  freshening  breezes. 

Ah!  and  the  happy  children, 
Whom  the  sun  first  smiled  on,  whom  first  burned  the 
malignant  south  wind, 
Down  the  long  sands  are  racing; 
Laughter  and  shouts  mingle  afar  as  of  a  band  of  sea- 
gulls. 

Vesper  of  Maytime  ending! 
Now  in  my  heart  sweetly  the  rhymes  buzz  like  a  swarm- 
ing beehive; 
Vesper,  to  thee  made  sacred. 
Bend  to  my  yoke,  quivering  still,  leaping,  the  Sapphic 
verses, 

Bend  to  my  yoke,  quiescent; 
Beautiful  girls,  sunburnt  and  bright,  magical  songs  are 

singing — 
Now  that  the  lunar  crescent 
Rises  o'er  hills  Samnite  afar,  set  the  loud  echoes  ringing  ! 


THOU   ASKEST 

BY 
ADA  NEGRI 

TRANSLATED  BY  G.  A.  GREENE 


25 


INTRODUCTION 

OET  of  the  poor  and  the  suffering  is  the  phrase 
often  used  in  mentioning  Ada  Negri,  one  of  the 
younger  and  greatly  admired  ItaHan  poets  of 
to-day.  She  was  bom  in  a  small  village  of 
Lombardy,  and  in  her  early  years  knew  only  the  strug- 
gle of  poverty  and  the  bitterness  of  repression.  Not- 
withstanding this,  her  eager  and  determined  mind 
reached  out  for  education  and  obtained  it.  At  the  age 
of  eighteen  she  left  her  native  village  to  teach  in  a  small 
school  at  Motta-Visconti,  where  she  remained  several 
years,  producing  at  intervals  poems  of  rare  beauty  and 
originality.  These  were  collected  and  published  in  a 
volume  entitled  Fatalità  (1892),  and  attracted  much  ad- 
miration for  their  exquisite  blending  of  force  and  tender- 
ness, pathos  and  passion.  Soon  after  the  publication  of 
this  volume.  Signorina  Negri  was  appointed  to  an  official 
place  in  Milan,  where  she  has  lived  ever  since. 


387 


THOU  ASKEST 

Thou  askest  who  I  am? — Child,  thou  shalt  hear. 
I  am  a  strong-winged  bird  by  fate  restrained, 
Condemned  to  languish  in  a  prison  drear. 
I  pine  for  splendors  of  the  sunlit  sphere, 
And  here  I  beat  my  wings,  in  torture  chained. 
My  fair  child,  thou  shalt  hear. 

I  dream  the  wedding  rites  of  sylvan  flowers 
In  centuried  shadows  of  the  w^oodland  vale: 
I  dream  the  loves  of  beasts  in  tropic  bowers, 
Or  stretched  on  torrid  sands;  the  burning  showers 
Of  fervent  sunlight,  fury  of  the  gale, 
Sunlight,  and  storms,  and  flowers. 

And  sometimes,  markest  thou?  forgetting  fear, 
I  struggle,  cursing,  as  through  tears  I  call. 
The  world  goes  on  and  laughs,  and  doth  not  hear. 
While,  raging  for  the  freedom  held  so  dear, 
I  break  my  wings  against  the  iron  wall, 
The  great  world  doth  not  hear! 

Oh,  who  will  break  these  bars  wherein  I  lie? 
Oh,  who  will  give  me  light,  and  boundless  day? 
Who  will  unclose  the  gates  that  ope  to  the  sky? 
I  must,  I  will  go  forth,  and  singing  fly. 
In  the  delirious  sunlight  swept  away — 
Freedom!  or  I  shall  die. 


388 


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